3 1822  01292  1888 


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LIBRARY 

INIVERSITY  OF 
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3  1822  01292  1888 


STARVECROW  FARM 


BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN. 


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New  York:   LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  Co. 


BY 

STANLEY  J.    WEYMAN 

A  uthor  of  "  A  Gentleman  of  France"  "  The  Abbess  of  Vlaye, 
"  Count  Hannibal,"  "  The  Castle  Inn,"  "  The  Red 
Cockade,"  "  Under  the  Red  Robe,"  etc.,  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


LONGMANS,    GREEN,    AND    CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 

LONDON  AND  BOMBAY 

1905 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  ACEOSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 1 

II.  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 13 

III.  A  WEDDING  MORNING 26 

IV.  Two  TO  ONE 34 

V.  A  JEZEBEL 48 

VI.  THE  INQUIRY 58 

VII.  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE 71 

VIII.  STAHVECROW  FARM 82 

IX.  PUNISHMENT   94 

X.  HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 104 

XL  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 116 

XII.  THE  OLD  LOVE 129 

XIII.  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 140 

XIV.  THE  LETTER 153 

XV.  THE  ANSWER 163 

XVI.  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 174 

XVII.  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 184 

XVIII.  MR.  JOSEPH  NADIN 196 

XIX.  AT  THE  FARM '. 207 

XX.  PROOF  POSITIVE 219 

XXI.  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 231 

XXII.  MR.  SUTTON'S  NEW  RQLE 244 

XXIII.  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 258 

XXIV.  THE  ROLE  CONTINUED 271 

XXV.  PRISON  EXPERIENCES 283 

v 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI.  A  RECONCILIATION  296 

XXVII.  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 308 

XXVIII.  THE  GOLDEN  SHIP 319 

XXIX.  THE  DAKK  MAID 330 

XXX.  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 341 

XXXI.  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM: 351 

XXXII.  THE  SEARCH 3G2 

XXXIII.  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 380 

XXXIV.  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 392 

XXXV.  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 404 

XXXVI.  Two  or  A  RACE.  .  416 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

THEY  PAID  OFF  THE  GUIDE  UNDER  THE  WALLS  OF  THE  OLD 
PRIORY  CHURCH  AT  CARTMEL 5 

"I  GIVE  YOU  A  LAST  CHANCE,"  HE  SAID 69 

HE  NEITHER  CARED  NOR  SAW  WHO  IT  WAS  WHOM  HE  HAD 

JOSTLED      79 

THE  FACE  WAS  STEWART'S  ! 134 

...  HE  TOUCHED  HIS  BROW  WITH  HIS  WHIP  HANDLE 195 

.  .  .  EVERY  HEAD  WAS  UNCOVERED  AS  CLYNE  .  .  .  RODE  TO 

THE     DOOR 252 

IN  TEN   MINUTES  THE  ROAD  TWINKLED  WITH  LIGHTS 367 

SHE   WAS  LEANING  AGAINST  THE   SIDE  OF  THE   t/INDOW.  .        .    424 


STARVECROW    FARM 


CHAPTER  I 

ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

A  HEAD  appeared  at  either  window  of  the  postchaise. 
Henrietta  looked  forward.  Her  lover  looked  back. 

The  postchaise  had  nearly  cleared  the  sands.  Behind 
it  the  low  line  of  Lancashire  coast  was  fading  from  sight. 
Before  it  the  long  green  hill  of  Cartmel  had  risen  so 
high  and  drawn  so  near  as  to  hide  the  Furness  fells.  On 
the  left,  seaward,  a  waste  of  sullen  shallows  and  quaking 
sands  still  stretched  to  infinity — a  thing  to  shudder  at. 
But  the  savage  head  of  Warton  Crag,  that  for  a  full 
hour  had  guarded  the  travellers'  right,  had  given  place 
to  the  gentler  outlines  of  Armside  Knot.  The  dreaded 
Lancashire  Channels  had  been  passed  in  safety,  and  the 
mounted  guide,  whose  task  it  was  to  lead  wayfarers  over 
these  syrtes,  and  who  enjoyed  as  guerdon  the  life-rent 
of  a  snug  farm  under  Cark,  no  longer  eyed  the  west  with 
anxiety,  but  plashed  in  stolid  silence  towards  his  evening 
meal. 

And  all  was  well.  But  the  margin  of  safety  had  not 
been  large — the  postboys'  boots  still  dripped,  and  the 
floor  of  the  carriage  was  damp.  Seaward  the  pale  line 
of  the  tide,  which  would  presently  sweep  in  one  foaming 

1 


2  ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

wave  across  the  flat,  and  in  an  instant  cover  it  half  a 
foot  deep,  was  fretting  abreast  the  point.  Ten  minutes 
later  had  been  too  late ;  and  the  face  of  Henrietta's  lover, 
whom  a  few  hours  and  a  Scotch  minister  were  to  make 
her  husband,  betrayed  his  knowledge  of  the  fact.  He 
looked  backward  and  westward  over  the  dreary  flat; 
and  fascinated,  seized,  possessed  by  the  scene,  he  shud- 
dered— perhaps  at  his  own  thoughts.  He  would  fain  have 
bidden  the  postboys  hasten,  but  he  was  ashamed  to  give 
the  order  before  her.  Halfway  across  he  had  set  down 
the  uneasiness  he  could  not  hide  to  the  fear  of  pursuit, 
to  the  fear  of  separation.  But  he  could  no  longer  do 
this;  for  it  was  plain  to  a  child  that  neither  horse  nor 
man  would  cross  Cartmel  sands  until  the  tide  that  was 
beginning  to  run  had  ebbed  again. 

And  Henrietta  looked  forward.  The  dull  grey  line  of 
coast,  quickly  passing  into  the  invisible,  on  which  she 
turned  her  back,  stood  for  her  past ;  the  sun-kissed  peaks 
and  blue  distances  of  Furness,  which  her  fancy  still 
mirrored,  though  the  Cartmel  shore  now  hid  them,  stood 
for  the  future.  To  those  heights,  beautified  by  haze 
and  distance,  her  heart  went  out,  finding  in  them  the 
true  image  of  the  coming  life,  the  true  foretype  of  those 
joys,  tender  and  mysterious,  to  which  she  was  hastening. 
The  past,  which  she  was  abandoning,  she  knew:  a  cold 
home  in  the  house  of  an  unfeeling  sister-in-law  and  a 
brother  who  when  he  was  not  hunting  was  tipsy — that, 
and  the  prospect  of  an  unlovely  marriage  with  a  man 
who — horror ! — had  had  one  wife  already,  stood  for  the 
past.  The  future  she  did  not  know;  but  hope  painted 
it  from  her  brightest  palette,  and  the  girl's  eyes  filled, 
her  lips  quivered,  her  heart  strained  towards  the  sym- 
pathy and  love  that  were  henceforth  to  be  hers — towards 


ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS  3 

the  happiness  which  she  had  set  out  to  seek,  and  that  now 
for  certain  could  not  escape  her.  As  the  postchaise  lum- 
bered heavily  up  the  rough-paved  groyne  that  led  from 
the  sands  she  shook  from  head  to  foot.  At  last  her  feet 
were  set  upon  the  land  beautiful.  And  save  for  the  com- 
pact which  her  self-respect  had  imposed  upon  her  com- 
panion, she  must  have  given  way,  she  must  have  opened 
all  her  heart,  thrown  herself  upon  his  breast  and  wept 
tears  of  tender  anticipation. 

.  She  controlled  herself.  As  it  happened,  they  drew  in 
their  heads  at  the  same  time,  and  his  eyes — they  were 
handsome  eyes — met  hers. 

"Dearest!"  he  said. 

"We  are  safe  now?" 

"Safe  from  pursuit.    But  I  am  not  safe." 

"Not  safe?" 

"From  your  cruelty." 

His  voice  was  velvet;  and  he  sought  to  take  her  hand. 

But  she  withheld  it. 

"No,  sir,"  she  said,  though  her  look  was  tender.  "Ke- 
member  our  compact.  You  are  quite  sure  that  they  will 
pursue  us  along  the  great  road?" 

"Yes,  as  far  as  Kendal.  There  they  will  learn  that 
we  are  not  before  them — that  we  have  somewhere  turned 
aside.  And  they  will  turn  back." 

"  But  suppose  that  they  drive  on  to  Carlisle — where  we 
rejoin  the  north  road." 

"They  will  not,"  he  replied  confidently.  He  had  re- 
gained the  plausible  air  which  he  had  lost  while  the  ter- 
ror of  the  sands  was  upon  him.  "And  if  you  fear  that," 
he  continued,  "there  is  the  other  plan,  and  I  think  the 
better  one.  To-morrow  at  noon  the  packet  leaves  White- 
haven  for  Scotland,  The  wind  is  fair,  and  by  six  in  the 


4  ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

afternoon  we  may  be  ashore,  and  an  hour  later  you  will 
be  mine!"  And  again  he  sought  to  draw  her  into  his 
arms. 

But  she  repelled  him. 

"In  either  case,"  she  said,  her  brow  slightly  puckered, 
"we  must  halt  to-night  at  the  inn  of  which  you  spoke." 

"The  inn  on  Windermere — yes.  And  we  can  decide 
there,  sweet,  whether  we  go  by  land  or  sea;  whether  we 
will  rejoin  the  north  road  at  Carlisle  or  cross  from 
Whitehaven  to" — he  hesitated  an  instant — "to  Dum- 
fries." 

She  was  romantic  to  the  pitch  of  a  day  which  valued 
sensibility  more  highly  than  sense,  and  which  had  begun 
to  read  the  poetry  of  Byron  without  ceasing  to  read  the 
Mysteries  of  Udolplw;  and  she  was  courageous  to  the 
point  of  folly.  Even  now  laughter  gleamed  under  her 
long  lashes,  and  the  bubblings  of  irresponsible  youth  were 
never  very  far  from  her  lips.  Still,  with  much  folly, 
with  vast  recklessness  and  an  infinitude  of  ignorance, 
she  was  yet  no  fool — though  a  hundred  times  a  day  she 
said  foolish  things.  In  the  present  circumstances  re- 
spect for  herself  rather  than  distrust  of  her  lover  taught 
her  that  she  stood  on  slippery  ways  and  instilled  a  meas- 
ure of  sobriety. 

"At  the  inn,"  she  said,  "you  will  put  me  in  charge  of 
the  landlady."  And  looking  through  the  window,  she 
carolled  a  verse  of  a  song  as  irrelevant  as  snow  in  sum- 
mer. 

"But "  he  paused. 

"There  is  a  landlady,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"You  will  do  what  I  say  to-day,"  she  replied  firmly — 
and  now  the  fine  curves  of  her  lips  were  pressed  together, 


THEY  PAID  OFF  THE   GUIDE  UNDER  THE  WALLS  OF  THE  OLD 
PRIORY  CHURCH  AT  CARTMEL 


ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS  5 

and  she  hummed  no  more — "if  you  wish  me  to  obey  you 
to-morrow." 

"Dearest,  you  know " 

But  she  cut  him  short.  "Please  to  say  that  it  shall  be 
so,"  she  said. 

He  swore  that  he  would  obey  her  then  and  always. 
And  bursting  again  into  song  as  the  carriage  climbed  the 
hill,  she  flung  from  her  the  mood  that  had  for  a  moment 
possessed  her,  and  was  a  child  again.  She  made  gay 
faces  at  him,  each  more  tantalising  than  the  other ;  gave 
him  look  for  look,  each  more  tender  than  the  other ;  and 
with  the  tips  of  her  dainty  fingers  blew  him  kisses  in 
exchange  for  his.  Her  helmet-shaped  bonnet,  with  its 
huge  plume  of  feathers,  lay  in  her  lap.  The  heavy  coils 
of  her  fair,  almost  flaxen,  hair  were  given  to  view,  and 
under  the  fire  of  his  flatteries  the  delicacy  of  colouring — 
for  pallor  it  could  scarcely  be  called — which  so  often  ac- 
companies very  light  hair,  and  was  the  sole  defect  of  her 
beauty,  gave  place  to  blushes  that  fired  his  blood. 

But  he  knew  something  of  her  spirit.  He  knew  that 
she  had  it  in  her  to  turn  back  even  now.  He  knew  that 
he  might  cajole,  but  could  never  browbeat  her.  And  he 
restrained  himself  the  more  easily,  as,  in  spite  of  the 
passion  and  eloquence — some  called  it  vapouring — which 
made  him  a  hero  where  thousands  listened,  he  gave  her 
credit  for  the  stronger  nature.  He  held  her  childishness, 
her  frivolity,  her  naivete,  in  contempt.  Yet  he  could  not 
shake  off  his  fear  of  what  she  might  do — when  she  knew. 

They  paid  off  the  guide  under  the  walls  of  the  old 
priory  church  at  Cartmel,  with  the  children  of  the  vil- 
lage crowding  about  the  doors  of  the  chaise ;  then  with  a 
fresh  team  they  started  up  the  valley  that  leads  to  the 
foot  of  Windermere  lake.  But  now  the  November  day 


6  ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

was  beginning  to  draw  in.  The  fell  on  their  right  took 
gloomier  shape;  on  their  left  a  brook  sopped  its  way 
through  low  marsh-covered  fields;  and  here  and  there 
the  leafless  limbs  of  trees  pointed  to  the  grey.  And  first 
one  and  then  the  other,  with  the  shrill  cries  of  moor- 
birds  in  their  ears,  and  the  fading  landscape  before  their 
eyes,  fell  silent.  Then,  had  they  been  as  other  lovers, 
had  she  stood  more  safely,  or  he  been  single-hearted,  he 
had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  close,  and  com- 
forted her,  and  the  dusk  within  had  been  but  the  frame 
and  set-off  to  their  love. 

But  as  it  was  he  feared  to  make  overtures,  and  they 
sat  each  in  a  corner  until,  in  sheer  dread  of  the  effect 
which  reflection  might  have  on  her,  he  asked  her  if  she 
feared  pursuit;  adding,  "Depend  upon  it,  darling,  you 
need  not;  Sir  Charles  will  not  give  a  thought  to  this 
road." 

She  drummed  thoughtfully  with  her  fingers  on  the 
pane. 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  my  brother,"  she  said. 

"Then  of  whom?" 

"Of  Anthony,"  she  answered,  and  corrected  herself 
hurriedly — "of  Captain  Clyne,  I  mean.  He  will  think 
of  this  road." 

"But  he  will  not  have  had  the  news  before  noon," 
Stewart  answered.  "It  is  eighteen  miles  from  your 
brother's  to  the  Old  Hall.  And  besides,  I  thought  that 
he  did  not  love  you." 

"He  does  not,"  she  rejoined,  "but  he  loves  himself. 
He  loves  his  pride.  And  this  will  hit  both — hard !  I 
am  not  quite  sure,"  she  continued  very  slowly  and 
thoughtfully,  "that  I  am  not  a  little  sorry  for  him.  He 
made  so  certain,  you  see.  He  thought  all  arranged.  A 


ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS  7 

week  to-day  was  the  day  fixed,  and — yes,"  impetuously, 
"I  am  sorry  for  him,  though  I  hated  him  yesterday." 

Stewart  was  silent  a  moment. 

"I  hate  him  to-day,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

His  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  hate  all  his  kind,"  he  said.  "They  are  hard  as 
stones,  stiff  as  oaks,  cruel  as — as  their  own  laws !  A 
man  is  no  man  to  them,  unless  he  is  of" — he  paused  al- 
most imperceptibly — "our  class!  A  law  is  no  law  to 
them  unless  they  administer  it!  They  see  men  die  of 
starvation  at  their  gates,  but  all  is  right,  all  is  just,  all 
is  for  the  best,  as  long  as  they  govern !" 

"I  don't  think  you  know  him,"  she  said,  somewhat 
stiffly. 

"Oh,  I  know  him!" 

"But " 

"Oh,  I  know  him  !"  he  repeated,  the  faint  note  of  pro- 
test in  her  voice  serving  to  excite  him.  "He  was  at  Man- 
chester. There  were  a  hundred  thousand  men  out  of 
work — starving,  seeing  their  wives  starve,  seeing  their 
children  starve.  And  they  came  to  Manchester  and  met. 
And  he  was  there,  and  he  was  one  of  those  who  signed 
the  order  for  the  soldiers  to  ride  them  down — men, 
women,  and  children,  without  arms,  and  packed  so  close- 
ly that  they  could  not  flee !" 

"Well,"  she  said  pertly,  "you  would  not  have  us  all 
murdered  in  our  beds?" 

He  opened  his  mouth,  and  he  shut  it  again.  He  knew 
that  he  had  been  a  fool.  He  knew  that  he  had  gone  near 
to  betraying  himself.  She  was  nineteen,  and  thought- 
less; she  had  been  bred  in  the  class  he  hated;  she  had 
never  heard  any  political  doctrines  save  those  which  that 


8  ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

class,  the  governing  class,  held;  and  though  twice  or 
thrice  he  had  essayed  faintly  to  imbue  her  with  his  no- 
tions of  liberty  and  equality  and  fraternity,  and  had  pic- 
tured her  with  the  red  cap  of  freedom  perched  on  her 
flaxen  head,  the  only  liberty  in  which  he  had  been  able 
to  interest  her  had  been  her  own ! 

By-and-by,  in  different  conditions,  she  might  be  more 
amenable,  should  he  then  think  it  worth  while  to  con- 
vert her.  For  the  present  his  eloquence  was  stayed  in 
midstream.  Yet  he  could  not  be  altogether  silent,  for 
he  was  a  man  to  whom  words  were  very  dear. 

"Well,"  he  said  in  a  lower  tone,  "there  is  something  in 
that,  sweet.  But  I  know  worse  of  him  than  that.  You 
may  think  it  right  to  transport  a  man  for  seven  years 
for  poaching  a  hare " 

"They  should  not  poach,"  she  said  lightly,  "and  they 
would  not  be  transported !" 

"But  you  will  think  differently  of  flogging  a  man  to 
death !" 

Her  face  flushed. 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  she  cried. 

"  On  his  ship  in  Plymouth  Harbour  they  will  tell  you 
differently." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  she  replied,  with  passion.  And 
then,  "How  horrid  you  are !"  she  continued.  "And  it  is 
nearly  dark !  Why  do  you  talk  of  such  things  ?  You  are 
jealous  of  him — that  is  what  you  are !" 

He  saw  the  wisdom  of  sliding  back  into  their  old 
relations,  and  he  seized  the  opportunity  her  words 
offered. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "I  am  jealous  of  him.  And 
why  not?  I  am  jealous  of  the  wind  that  caresses  your 
cheek,  of  the  carpet  that  feels  your  tread,  of  the  star 


ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS  9 

that  peeps  in  at  your  window !  I  am  jealous  of  all  who 
come  near  you,  or  speak  to  you,  or  look  at  you !" 

"Are  you  really?" — in  a  tone  of  childish  delight.  "As 
jealous  as  that?" 

He  swore  it  with  many  phrases. 

"And  you  will  be  so  always?"  she  sighed  softly,  lean- 
ing towards  him.  "Always — Alan?" 

"To  eternity!"  he  answered.  And  emboldened  by  her 
melting  mood,  he  would  have  taken  her  hand,  and  per- 
haps more  than  her  hand,  but  at  that  moment  the  lights 
of  the  inn  at  Newby  Bridge  flashed  on  them  suddenly, 
the  roar  of  the  water  as  it  rushed  over  the  weirs  sur- 
prised their  ears,  the  postboys  cracked  their  whips,  and 
the  carriage  bounded  and  rattled  over  the  steep  pitch  of 
the  narrow  bridge.  A  second  or  two  later  it  came  to  a 
stand  before  the  inn  amid  a  crowd  of  helpers  and  stable 
lads,  whose  lanthorns  dazzled  the  travellers'  eyes. 

They  stayed  only  to  change  horses,  then  were  away 
again.  But  the  halt  sufficed  to  cool  his  courage ;  and  as 
they  pounded  on  monotonously  through  the  night,  the 
darkness  and  the  dim  distances  of  river  and  lake — for 
they  were  approaching  the  shores  of  Windermere — pro- 
duced their  natural  effect  on  Henrietta's  feelings.  She 
had  been  travelling  since  early  morning  cooped  and 
cramped  within  the  narrow  chaise;  she  had  spent  the 
previous  night  in  a  fever  of  suspense  and  restlessness. 
Now,  though  slowly,  the  gloom,  the  dark  outlines  of  the 
woods,  and  that  sense  of  loneliness  which  seizes  upon  all 
who  are  flung  for  the  first  time  among  strange  surround- 
ings, began  to  tell  upon  the  spirits  even  of  nineteen. 
She  did  not  admit  the  fact  to  herself — she  would  have 
died  before  she  confessed  it  to  another;  but  disillusion 
had  begun  its  subtle  task. 


10  ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS 

Here  were  all  the  things  for  which  she  had  panted — 
the  dear,  delightful  things  of  which  she  had  dreamed: 
the  whirl  of  the  postchaise  through  the  night,  the  crack 
of  the  whips,  the  cries  of  the  postboys,  the  lighted  inns, 
the  dripping  woods,  the  fear  of  pursuit,  the  presence  of 
her  lover!  And  already  they  were  growing  flat.  Al- 
ready the  savour  was  escaping  from  them.  There  were 
tears  in  her  heart,  tears  very  near  her  eyes. 

He  could  have  taken  her  hand  then,  and  more  than  her 
hand.  For  suddenly  she  recognised,  with  a  feeling 
nearer  terror  than  her  flighty  nature  had  ever  experi- 
enced before,  her  complete  dependence  on  him.  Hence- 
forth love,  comfort,  kindness,  companionship — all  must 
come  from  him.  She  had  flung  from  her  every  stay  but 
his,  every  hand  but  his.  He  was  become  her  all,  her 
world.  And  could  she  trust  him?  Not  only  with  her 
honour — she  never  dreamed  of  doubting  that — but  could 
she  trust  him  afterwards  ?  To  be  kind  to  her,  to  be  good 
to  her,  to  be  generous  to  her?  Thoughtless,  inexperi- 
enced, giddy  as  she  was,  Henrietta  trembled.  A  pitiful 
sob  rose  in  her  throat.  It  needed  but  little,  very  little, 
and  she  had  cast  herself  in  abandonment  on  her 
lover's  breast  and  there  wept  out  her  fears  and  her 
doubts. 

But  he  had  also  his  anxieties,  and  he  let  the  moment 
pass  by  him  unmarked.  He  had  reasons,  other  and 
more  urgent  than  those  he  had  given  her,  for  taking  this 
road  and  for  staying  the  night  in  a  place  whence  White- 
haven  and  Carlisle  were  equally  accessible ;  and  those  rea- 
sons had  seemed  good  enough  in  the  day  when  the  fear 
of  pursuit  had  swayed  him.  They  seemed  less  pertinent 
now.  He  began  to  wish  that  he  had  taken  another  road, 
pursued  another  course.  And  he  was  deep  in  a  brown 


ACROSS  THE  QUICKSANDS  H 

study,  in  which  love  had  no  part,  when  an  exclamation, 
at  once  of  surprise  and  admiration,  recalled  him  to  the 
present. 

They  had  topped  a  bare  shoulder  and  come  suddenly 
in  sight  of  Lake  Windermere.  The  moon  had  not  long 
risen  above  the  hills  on  their  right,  the  water  lay  on 
their  left;  below  them  stretched  a  long  pale  mirror, 
whose  borrowed  light,  passing  over  the  dark  woods  which 
framed  it,  faintly  lit  and  explored  the  stupendous  fells 
and  mountains  that  rose  beyond.  To  Stewart  it  was  no 
unfamiliar  or  noteworthy  sight;  and  his  eyes,  after  a 
passing  glance  of  approval,  turned  to  the  road  below 
them  and  marked  with  secret  anxiety  the  spot  where 
two  or  three  lights  indicated  their  halting-place. 

But  to  Henrietta  the  sight,  as  unexpected  as  it  was 
beautiful,  appealed  in  a  manner  never  to  be  forgotten. 
She  held  her  breath,  and  slowly  her  eyes  filled.  Half 
subdued  by  fatigue  and  darkness,  half  awake  to  the  dan- 
gers and  possibilities  of  her  situation,  she  was  in  the 
mood  most  fit  to  be  moved  by  the  tender  melancholy  of 
the  scene.  She  was  feeling  a  craving  for  something — 
for  something  to  comfort  her,  for  something  to  reassure 
her,  for  something  on  which  to  lean  in  the  absence  of  all 
the  common  things  of  life:  and  there  broke  on  her  the 
mystic  beauty  of  this  moonlit  lake,  and  it  melted  her. 
Her  heart,  hitherto  untouched,  awoke.  The  compact 
which  she  had  made  with  her  lover  stood  for  naught. 
The  tears  running  down  her  face,  she  turned  to  him,  she 
held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"Kiss  me!"  she  murmured.  "And  say — say  you  will 
be  good  to  me !  I  have  only  you  now ! — only  you ! — only 
you !" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  rapturously ; 


12 

and  the  embrace  was  ardent  enough  to  send  the  scarlet 
surging  to  her  temples,  to  set  her  heart  throbbing.  But 
the  chaise  was  in  the  very  act  of  drawing  up  at  the  door 
of  the  inn;  and  it  may  be  doubted  if  he  tasted  the  full 
sweetness  of  the  occasion.  A  face  looked  in  at  the  car- 
riage window,  on  the  side  farther  from  the  lake  appeared 
a  bowing  landlord,  a  voice  inquired,  "Horses  on?"  The 
postchaise  stopped. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

CHEERFUL  lights  shining  from  the  open  doorway  and 
the  red-curtained  windows  of  the  inn,  illumined  the  road 
immediately  before  it ;  and  if  these  and  the  change  in  all 
the  surroundings  did  not  at  once  dispel  the  loneliness 
at  Henrietta's  heart,  at  least  they  drove  the  tears  from 
her  eyes  and  the  blushes  from  her  cheeks.  The  cold 
moonlight,  the  unchanging  face  of  nature,  had  sobered 
and  frightened  her;  the  warmth  of  fire  and  candle,  the 
sound  of  voices,  and  the  low,  homely  front  of  the  house, 
with  its  two  projecting  gables,  reassured  her.  The  for- 
lorn child  who  had  flung  herself  into  her  lover's  arms 
not  forty  seconds  before  was  not  to  be  recognised  in  the 
girl  who  alighted  slowly  and  with  gay  self-possession, 
took  in  the  scene  at  a  glance,  and  won  the  hearts  of  ost- 
ler and  stableboy  by  her  ease  and  her  fresh  young  beauty. 
She  was  bare-headed,  and  her  high-dressed  hair,  a  little 
disordered  by  the  journey,  gleamed  in  the  lanthorn-light. 
Her  eyes  were  like  stars.  The  landlord  of  the  inn — 
known  for  twenty  miles  round  as  "Long  Tom  Gilson" — 
saw  at  a  glance  that  the  missus's  tongue  would  run  on 
her.  He  wished  that  he  might  not  be  credited  with  his 
hundred-and-thirty-first  conquest! 

The  thought,  however,  did  not  stand  between  him  and 
his  duty.  "Sharp,  Sam,"  he  cried  briskly.  "Fire  in 

13 


14  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

Mr.  Rogers's  room."  Then  to  his  guests:  "Late? 
No,  sir,  not  at  all.  This  way,  ma'am.  All  will  be  ready 
in  a  twinkling." 

But  Henrietta  stood  smiling. 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered  pleasantly,  her  clear 
young  voice  slightly  raised.  "But  I  wished  to  be  placed 
in  the  landlady's  charge.  Is  she  here?" 

Gilson  turned  toward  the  doorway,  which  his  wife's 
portly  form  fitted  pretty  tightly. 

"Here,  missus,"  he  cried,  "the  young  lady  wants  you." 

But  Mrs.  Gilson  was  a  woman  who  was  not  wont  to 
be  hurried  and  before  she  reached  the  side  of  the  car- 
riage Stewart  interposed;  more  roughly  and  more  hur- 
riedly than  seemed  discreet  in  the  circumstances. 

"Let  us  go  in,  and  settle  that  afterwards,"  he  said. 

"No." 

"Yes,"  he  retorted.  And  he  grasped  the  girl's  arm 
tightly.  His  voice  was  low,  but  insistent.  "Let  us  go 
in." 

But  the  girl  only  vouchsafed  him  a  look,  half  wonder- 
ing, half  indignant.  She  turned  to  the  landlady. 

"I  am  tired,  and  need  no  supper,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  take  me  into  a  room,  if  you  please,  where  I  can  rest 
at  once,  as  we  go  on  early  to-morrow." 

"  Certainly,"  the  landlady  answered.  She  was  a  burly, 
red-faced,  heavy-browed  woman.  "But  you  have  come 
some  way,  ma'am.  Will  you  not  take  supper  with  the 
gentleman?" 

"No." 

He  interposed. 

"At  least  let  us  go  in!"  he  repeated  pettishly.  And 
there  was  an  agitation  in  his  tone  and  manner  not  easy 
to  explain,  except  on  the  supposition  that  in  some  way 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  15 

she  had  thwarted  him.  "We  do  not  want  to  spend  tfie 
night  on  the  road,  I  suppose?" 

She  did  not  reply.  But  none  the  less,  as  she  followed 
Mrs.  Gilson  to  the  door,  was  she  wondering  what  ailed 
him.  She  was  unsuspicious  by  nature,  and  she  would 
not  entertain  the  thought  that  he  wished  her  to  act 
otherwise  than  she  was  acting.  What  was  it  then  ?  Save 
for  a  burly  man  in  a  red  waistcoat  who  stood  in  a  lighted 
doorway  farther  along  the  front  of  the  inn,  and  seemed 
to  be  watching  their  movements  with  lazy  interest,  there 
were  only  the  people  of  the  inn  present.  And  the  red- 
waistcoated  man  could  hardly  be  in  pursuit  of  them,  for, 
for  certain,  he  was  a  stranger.  Then  what  was  it? 

She  might  have  turned  and  asked  her  lover;  but  she 
was  offended  and  she  would  not  stoop.  And  before  she 
thought  better  of  it — or  worse — she  had  crossed  the 
threshold.  A  warmer  air,  an  odour  of  spices  and  lemons 
and  old  rum,  met  her.  On  the  left  of  the  low-browed 
passage  a  half-open  door  offered  a  glimpse  of  shining 
glass  and  ruddy  firelight ;  there  was  Mrs.  Gilson's  snug- 
gery, sometimes  called  the  coach  office.  On  the  right  a 
room  with  a  long  table  spoke  of  coaching  meals  and  a 
groaning  board.  From  beyond  these,  from  the  pene- 
tralia of  kitchen  and  pantry,  came  faint  indications  of 
plenty  and  the  spit. 

A  chambermaid  was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow 
staircase  to  go  before  them  with  lights ;  but  the  landlady 
took  the  candles  herself,  and  dismissed  the  woman  with  a 
single  turn  of  the  eye.  A  habit  of  obedience  to  Mrs.  Gil- 
son  was  the  one  habit  of  the  inn,  the  one  common  ground 
on  which  all,  from  Tom  Gilson  to  the  smallest  strapper 
in  the  stable,  came  together. 

The  landlady  went  ponderously  up  before  her  guest 


16  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

and  opened  the  door  of  a  dimity-hung  chamber.  It  was 
small  and  simple,  but  of  the  cleanest.  Hid  in  it  were 
rosemary  and  lavender;  and  the  leafless  branches  of  a 
rose-tree  whipped  the  diamond  panes  of  the  low,  broad 
window.  Mrs.  Gilson  lighted  the  two  wax  candles — 
"waxes"  in  those  days  formed  part  of  every  bill  but  the 
bagman's.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  the  girl  with 
deliberate  disapproval. 

"You  will  take  nothing,  ma'am,  to  eat?"  she  said. 

"No,  thank  you,"  Henrietta  answered.  And  then,  re- 
senting the  woman's  look,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  she 
continued,  holding  her  head  high,  "that  we  have  eloped, 
and  are  going  to  be  married  to-morrow.  That  is  why  I 
wished  to  be  put  in  your  charge." 

The  landlady,  with  her  great  face  frowning,  contin- 
ued to  look  at  the  girl,  and  for  a  moment  did  not  an- 
swer. 

At  length,  "You've  run  away,"  she  said,  "from  your 
friends  ?" 

Henrietta  nodded  loftily. 

"From  a  distance,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Gilson  rejoined,  her  face  continuing  to 
express  growing  disapproval,  "there's  a  stock  of  fools 
near  and  far.  And  if  I  did  my  duty,  young  lady,  there'd 
be  one  who  would  likely  be  thankful  all  her  life."  She 
took  the  snuffers  and  slowly  and  carefully  snuffed  the 
two  candles.  "If  I  did  my  duty,  I'd  lock  you  up  and 
keep  you  safe  till  your  friends  came  for  you." 

"You  are  insolent,"  the  girl  cried,  flaming  up. 

"That  depends,"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted,  with  the  ut- 
most coolness.  "Fine  feathers  make  fine  birds.  You 
may  be  my  lady,  or  my  lady's  maid.  Men  are  such  fools 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  17 

— all's  of  the  best  that's  red  and  white.  But  I'm  not  so 
easy." 

Henrietta  raised  her  chin  a  little  higher. 

"Be  good  enough  to  leave  the  room !"  she  said. 

But  the  stout  "woman  held  her  ground. 

"Not  before  I've  said  what  I  have  to  say,"  she  an- 
swered. "It  is  one  thing,  and  one  thing  only,  hinders 
me  doing  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  what  if  you  were  my 
girl  I'd  wish  another  to  do.  And  that  is — your  friends 
may  not  want  you  back.  And  then,  to  be  married  to- 
morrow is  like  enough  the  best  you  can  do  for  yourself ! 
And  the  sooner  the  better !" 

Henrietta's  face  turned  scarlet,  and  she  stamped  on 
the  floor. 

"You  are  a  wicked,  insolent  woman  !"  she  said.  "You 
do  not  know  your  place,  nor  mine.  How  dare  you  say 
such  things  to  me  ?  How  dare  you  ?  Did  you  hear  me 
bid  you  leave  the  room  ?" 

"Hoity-toity!" 

"Yes,  at  once !" 

"Very  good,"  Mrs.  Gilson  replied  ponderously — "very 
good !  But  you  may  find  worse  friends  than  me.  And 
maybe  one  of  them  is  downstairs  now." 

"You  hateful  woman!"  the  girl  cried;  and  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  landlady's  red,  frowning  face  as  the 
woman  turned  for  a  last  look  in  the  doorway.  Then  the 
door  closed,  and  she  was  left  alone — alone  with  her 
thoughts. 

Her  face  burned,  her  neck  tingled.  She  was  very,  very 
angry,  and  a  little  frightened.  This  was  a  scene  in  her 
elopement  which  anticipation  had  not  pictured.  It  hu- 
miliated her — and  scared  her.  To-morrow,  no  doubt, 
all  would  be  well;  all  would  be  cheerfulness,  tenderness, 


18  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

sunshine;  all  would  be  on  the  right  basis.  But  in  the 
meantime  the  sense  of  forlornness  which  had  attacked 
her  in  the  chaise  returned  on  her  as  her  anger  cooled,  and 
with  renewed  strength.  Her  world,  the  world  of  her 
whole  life  up  to  daybreak  of  this  day,  was  gone  forever. 
In  its  place  she  had  only  this  bare  room  with  its  small- 
paned  casement  and  its  dimity  hangings  and  its  clean 
scent.  Of  course  he  was  below,  and  he  was  the  world  to 
her,  and  would  make  up  a  hundredfold  what  she  had  re- 
signed for  him.  But  he  was  below,  he  was  absent ;  and 
meantime  her  ear  and  her  heart  ached  for  a  tender  word, 
a  kind  voice,  a  look  of  love.  At  least,  she  thought,  he 
might  have  come  under  her  window,  and  whistled  the  air 
that  had  been  the  dear  signal  for  their  meetings.  Or  he 
might  have  stood  a  while  and  chatted  with  her,  and 
shown  her  that  he  was  not  offended.  The  severest  prude, 
even  that  dreadful  woman  who  had  insulted  her,  could 
not  object  to  that ! 

But  he  did  not  come.  Of  course  he  was  supping — 
what  things  men  were !  And  then,  out  of  sheer  loneli- 
ness, her  eyes  filled,  and  her  thoughts  of  him  grew  ten- 
der and  more  humble.  She  dwelt  on  him  no  longer  as 
her  conquest,  her  admirer,  the  prize  of  her  bow  and  spear, 
subject  to  her  lightest  whim  and  her  most  foolish  ca- 
price; but  as  her  all,  the  one  to  whom  she  must  cling 
and  on  whom  she  must  depend.  She  thought  of  him  as 
for  a  brief  while  she  had  thought  of  him  in  the  chaise. 
And  she  wondered  with  a  chill  of  fear  if  she  would  be 
left  after  marriage  as  she  was  left  now.  She  had  heard 
of  such  things,  but  in  the  pride  of  her  beauty,  and  his 
subjection,  she  had  not  thought  that  they  could  happen 
to  her.  Now But  instead  of  dwelling  on  a  possi- 
bility which  frightened  her,  she  vowed  to  be  very  good 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  19 

to  him — good  and  tender  and  loyal,  and  a  true  wife. 
They  were  resolutions  that  a  trifling  temptation,  an 
hour's  neglect  or  a  cross  word,  might  have  overcome. 
But  they  were  honest,  they  were  sincere,  they  were  made 
in  the  soberest  moment  that  her  young  life  had  ever 
known ;  and  they  marked  a  step  in  development,  a  point 
in  that  progress  from  girlhood  to  womanhood  which  so 
few  hours  might  see  complete. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Gilson  had  returned  to  her  snuggery, 
wearing  a  face  that,  had  the  lemons  and  other  comforts 
about  her  included  cream,  must  have  turned  it  sour. 
That  snuggery,  it  may  be,  still  exists  in  the  older  part  of 
the  Low  Wood  Inn.  In  that  event  it  should  have  a  value. 
For  to  it  Mr.  Samuel  Eogers,  the  rich  London  banker, 
would  sometimes  condescend  from  his  apartments  in  the 
south  gable ;  and  with  him  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  Sharp,  a  par- 
ticular gentleman  who  sniffed  a  little  at  the  rum ;  or  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  who,  rumour  had  it,  enjoyed  some 
reputation  in  London  as  a  writer.  At  times,  too,  Mr. 
Southey,  Poet  Laureate  elsewhere,  but  here  Squire  of 
Greta  Hall,  would  stop  on  his  way  to  visit  his  neighbour 
at  Storrs — no  such  shorthorns  in  the  world  as  Mr.  Bol- 
ton's  at  Storrs ;  and  not  seldom  he  brought  with  him  a 
London  gentleman,  Mr.  Brougham,  whose  vanity  in  op- 
posing the  Lowther  interest  at  the  late  election  had 
almost  petrified  Mrs.  Gilson.  Mr.  Brougham  called 
himself  a  Whig,  but  Mrs.  Gilson  held  him  little  bet- 
ter than  a  Radical — a  kind  of  cattle  seldom  seen  in 
those  days  outside  the  dock  of  an  assize  court.  Or 
sometimes  the  visitor  was  that  queer,  half-moithered 
Mr.  Wordsworth  at  Rydal;  or  Mr.  Wilson  of  Elleray 
with  his  great  voice  and  his  homespun  jacket.  He 
had  a  sort  of  name  too;  but  if  he  did  anything 


20  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

bettor  than  he  fished,  the  head  ostler  was  a  Dutch- 
man! 

The  visits  of  these  great  people,  however — not  that 
Mrs.  Gilson  Wenched  before  them,  she  blenched  before 
nobody  short  of  Lord  Lonsdale — had  place  in  the  sum- 
mer. To-night  the  landlady's  sanctum,  instead  of  its 
complement  of  favourite  guests  gathered  to  stare  at  Mr. 
Southey's  last  order  for  "Horses  on !"  boasted  but  a  sin- 
gle tenant.  Even  he  sat  where  the  landlady  did  not  at 
once  see  him;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  cast  a  log 
on  the  dogs  with  a  violence  which  betrayed  her  feelings 
that  he  announced  his  presence  by  a  cough. 

"There's  the  sign  of  a  good  house,"  he  said  with  ap- 
proval. "  Never  unprepared ! — never  unprepared !  Come 
late,  come  early — coach,  chaise,  or  gig— it  is  all  one  to  a 
good  house." 

"Umph!" 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  sit  by" — he  waved  his  pipe  with 
unction — "and  to  see  a  thing  done  properly !" 

"Ay,  it's  a  pleasure  to  many  to  sit  by,"  the  landlady 
answered  with  withering  sarcasm.  "It's  an  easy  way 
of  making  a  living — especially  if  you  are  waiting  for 
what  doesn't  come.  Put  a  red  waistcoat  on  old  Sam 
the  postboy,  and  he'd  sit  by  and  see  as  well  as  an- 
other!" 

The  man  in  the  red  waistcoat  chuckled. 

"Pm  glad  they  don't  take  you  into  council  at  Bow 
Street,  ma'am !"  he  said. 

"They  might  do  worse." 

"They  might  do  better,"  he  rejoined.  "They  might 
take  you  into  the  force!  I  warrant" — with  a  look  of 
respectful  admiration — "if  they  did  there's  little  would 
escape  you.  Now  that  young  lady  ?"  He  indicated  the 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  21 

upper  regions  with  his  pipe.  "Postboys  say  she  came 
from  Lancaster.  But  from  where  before  that?" 

"Wherever  she's  from,  she  did  not  tell  me!"  Mrs. 
Gilson  snapped. 

"Ah !" 

"And  what  is  more,  if  she  had,  I  shouldn't  tell  you." 

"Oh,  come,  come,  ma'am!"  Mr.  Bishop  was  mildly 
shocked.  "Oh,  come,  ma'am!  That  is  not  like  you. 
Think  of  the  King  and  his  royal  prerogative!" 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

Mr.  Bishop  looked  quite  staggered. 

"You  don't  mean  it,"  he  said — "you  don't  indeed. 
You  would  not  have  the  Eadicals  and  Jacobins  ramping 
over  the  country,  ahooting  honest  men  in  their  shops  and 
burning  and  ravaging,  and — and  generally  playing  the 
devil?" 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  is  you  that  stops  them?" 

"No,  ma'am,  no,"  with  a  modest  smile.  "I  don't  stop 
them.  I  leave  that  to  the  yeomanry — old  England's 
bulwark  and  their  country's  pride !  But  when  the  yeo- 
manry 've  done  their  part,  I  take  them,  and  the  law 
passes  upon  them.  And  when  they  have  been  hung  or 
transported  and  an  example  made,  then  you  sleep  com- 
fortably in  your  beds.  That  is  what  I  do.  And  I  think 
I  may  say  that  next  to  Mr.  Nadin  of  Manchester,  who  is 
the  greatest  man  in  our  line  out  of  London,  I  have  done 
as  much  in  that  way  as  another." 

Mrs.  Gilson  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  have  never  done  more  than 
you've  done  since  you've  been  here,  it's  a  wonder  the 
roof's  on !  Though  what  you  expected  to  do,  except  keep 
a  whole  skin,  passes  me!  There's  the  Chronicle  in  to- 
day, and  such  talks  of  riots  at  Glasgow  and  Paisley,  and 


22  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

such  meetings  here  and  alarms  there,  it  is  a  wonder  to 
me" — with  sarcasm — "they  can  do  without  you!  To 
judge  by  what  I  hear,  Lancashire  way  is  just  a  kettle  of 
troubles  and  boiling  over,  and  bread  that  price  everybody 
is  wanting  to  take  the  old  King's  crown  off  his  head." 

"And  his  head  off  his  body,  ma'am!"  Mr.  Bishop  add- 
ed solemnly. 

"  So  that  if  s  little  good  you  and  your  yeomanry  seem 
to  have  done  at  Manchester,  except  get  yourselves 
abused !" 

"Ma'am,  the  King's  crown  is  on  his  head,"  Mr.  Bishop 
retorted,  "and  his  head  is  on  his  body !" 

"Well  ?  Not  that  his  head  is  much  good  to  him,  poor 
mad  gentleman !" 

"And  King  Louis,  ma'am,  years  ago — what  of  him? 
The  King  of  France,  ma'am  ?  Crown  gone,  head  gone — 
all  gone!  And  why?  Because  there  was  not  a  good 
blow  struck  in  time,  ma'am !  Because,  poor,  foolish  for- 
eigner, he  had  no  yeomanry  and  no  Bow  Street,  ma'am ! 
But  the  Government,  the  British  Government,  is  wiser. 
They  are  brave  men — brave  noblemen,  I  should  say," 
Mr.  Bishop  amended  with  respect, — ''but  with  treason 
and  misprision  of  treason  stalking  the  land,  with  the  low- 
er orders,  that  should  behave  themselves  lowly  and  rever- 
ently to  all  their  betters,  turned  to  ramping,  roaring 
Jacobins  seeking  whom  they  may  devour,  and  whose  ma- 
chine they  may  break,  my  lords  would  not  sleep  in  their 
beds — no,  not  they,  brave  men  as  they  are — if  it  were 
not  for  the  yeomanry  and  the  runners."  He  had  to 
pause  for  breath. 

Mrs.  Gilson  coughed  dryly. 

"Leather's  a  fine  thing,"  she  said,  "if  you  believe  the 
cobbler." 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  23 

"Well,"  Mr.  Bishop  answered,  nodding  his  head  con- 
fidently, "it's  so  far  true  you'd  do  ill  without  it." 

But  Mrs.  Gilson  was  equal  to  the  situation. 

"Ay,  underfoot,"  she  said.  "But  everything  in  its 
place.  My  man,  he  be  mad  upon  tod-hunting;  but  I 
never  knew  him  go  to  Manchester  'Change  to  seek  one." 

"No?"  Mr.  Bishop  held  his  pipe  at  arm's  length,  and 
smiled  at  it  mysteriously.  "Yet  I've  seen  one  there," 
he  continued,  "or  in  such  another  place," 

"Where?" 

"Common  Garden,  London." 

"It  was  in  a  box,  then." 

"It  was,  ma'am,"  Mr.  Bishop  replied,  with  smiling 
emphasis.  "It  was  in  a  box — 'safe  bind,  safe  find,' 
ma'am.  That's  the  motto  of  my  line,  and  that  was  it 
precisely !  More  by  token  it's  not  outside  the  bounds  of 
possibility  you  may  see" — he  glanced  towards  the  door 
as  he  knocked  his  pipe  against  his  top-boot — "one  of  my 
tods  in  a  box  before  morning." 

Mrs.  Gilson  shot  out  her  underlip  and  looked  at  him 
darkly.  She  never  stooped  to  express  surprise;  but  she 
was  surprised.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  ring  of  tri- 
umph in  the  runner's  tone ;  yet  of  all  the  unlikely  things 
within  the  landlady's  range  none  seemed  more  unlikely 
than  that  he  should  flush  his  game  there.  She  had  asked 
herself  more  than  once  why  he  was  there;  and  why  no 
coach  stopped,  no  chaise  changed  horses,  no  rider  passed 
or  bagman  halted,  without  running  the  gauntlet  of  his 
eye.  For  in  that  country  of  lake  and  mountain  were 
neither  riots  nor  meetings;  and  though  Lancashire  lay 
near,  the  echoes  of  strife  sounded  but  weakly  and  fitfully 
across  Cartmel  Sands.  Mills  might  be  burning  in 
Cheadle  and  Preston,  men  might  be  drilling  in  Bolland 


24  A  RED  WAISTCOAT 

and  Whitewell,  sedition  might  be  preaching  in  Manches- 
ter, all  England  might  be  in  a  flame  with  dear  bread  and 
no  work,  Corbett's  Twopenny  Eegister  and  Orator  Hunt's 
declamations — but  neither  the  glare  nor  the  noise  had 
much  effect  on  Windermere.  Mr.  Bishop's  presence 

there  seemed  superfluous  therefore;  seemed But 

before  she  could  come  to  the  end  of  her  logic,  her  staid 
waiting-maid  appeared,  demanding  four  pennyworth  of 
old  Geneva  for  the  gentleman  in  Mr.  Kogers's  room ;  and 
when  she  was  serving,  Mrs.  Gilson  took  refuge  in  in- 
credulity. 

"A  man  must  talk  if  he  can't  do,"  she  said — "if  he's 
to  live." 

Mr.  Bishop  smiled,  and  patted  his  buckskin  breeches 
with  confidence. 

"You'll  believe  ma'am,"  he  said,  "when  you  see  him 
walk  into  the  coach  with  the  handcuffs  on  his  wrists." 

"Ay,  I  shall!" 

The  innuendo  in  the  landlady's  tone  was  so  plain  that 
her  husband,  who  had  entered  while  she  was  rinsing  the 
noggin  in  which  she  had  measured  the  gin,  chuckled 
audibly.  She  turned  an  awful  stare  on  him,  and  he  col- 
lapsed. The  Bow  Street  runner  was  less  amenable  to 
discipline. 

"You  sent  the  lad,  Tom?"  he  asked. 

The  landlord  nodded,  with  an  apprehensive  eye  on  his 
wife. 

"He  should  be  back" — Mr.  Bishop  consulted  a  huge 
silver  watch — "by  eleven." 

"Ay,  sure." 

"Where  has  he  gone?"  Mrs.  Gilson  asked,  with  an 
ominous  face. 

She  seldom  interfered  in  stable  matters;  but  if  she 


A  RED  WAISTCOAT  25 

chose,  it  was  understood  that  no  department  was  outside 
her  survey. 

"  Only  to  Kendal  with  a  message  for  me,"  Bishop  an- 
swered. 

"At  this  time  of  the  night?" 

"Ma'am" — Mr.  Bishop  rose  and  tapped  his  red  waisi> 
coat  with  meaning,  almost  with  dignity — "the  King  has 
need  of  him.  The  King — God  bless  and  restore  him  to 
health — will  pay,  and  handsomely.  For  the  why  and 
the  wherefore  he  has  gone,  his  majesty's  gracious  prerog- 
ative is  to  say  nothing" — with  a  smile.  "That  is  the 
rule  in  Bow  Street,  and  for  this  time  we'll  make  it  the 
rule  under  Bow  Fell,  if  you  please.  Moreover,  what  he 
took  I  wrote,  ma'am,  and  as  he  cannot  read  and  I  sent 
it  to  one  who  will  give  it  to  another,  his  majesty  will 
enjoy  his  prerogative  as  he  should !" 

There  was  a  spark  in  Mrs.  Gilson's  eye.  Fortunately 
the  runner  saw  it,  and  before  she  could  retort  he  slipped 
out,  leaving  the  storm  to  break  about  her  husband's  head. 
Some  who  had  known  Mr.  Gilson  in  old  days  won- 
dered how  he  bore  his  life,  and  why  he  did  not  hang  him- 
self— Mrs.  Gilson's  tongue  was  so  famous.  And  more 
said  he  had  reason  to  hang  himself.  Only  a  few,  and 
they  the  wisest,  noted  that  he  who  had  once  been  Long 
Tom  Gilson  grew  fat  and  rosy ;  and  these  quoted  a  prov- 
erb about  the  wind  and  the  shorn  lamb.  One — it  was 
Bishop  himself,  but  he  had  known  them  no  more  than 
three  weeks — said  nothing  when  the  question  was  raised, 
but  tapped  his  nose  and  winked,  and  looked  at  Long  Tom 
as  if  he  did  not  pity  him  overmuch. 


'A  WEDDING  MORNING 

IN  one  particular  at  least  the  Bow  Street  runner  was 
right.  The  Government  which  ruled  England  in  that 
year,  1819,  was  made  up  of  brave  men;  whether  they 
were  wise  men  or  great  men,  or  far-seeing  men,  is  an- 
other question.  The  peace  which  followed  Waterloo  had 
been  welcomed  with  enthusiasm.  Men  supposed  that  it 
would  put  an  end  to  the  enormous  taxation  and  the 
strain  which  the  nation  had  borne  so  gallantly  during 
twenty  years  of  war.  The  goddess  of  prosperity,  with 
her  wings  of  silver  and  her  feathers  of  gold,  was  to  bless 
a  people  which  had  long  known  only  paper  money.  In  a 
twinkling  every  trade  was  to  flourish,  every  class  to  be 
more  comfortable,  every  man  to  have  work  and  wage, 
plenty  and  no  taxes. 

Instead,  there  ensued  a  period  of  want  and  misery  al- 
most without  a  parallel.  During  the  war  the  country 
had  been  self-supporting,  wheat  had  risen,  land  suitable 
and  unsuitable  had  been  enclosed  and  tilled.  Bread  had 
been  dear  but  work  had  been  plentiful.  Now,  at  the  pros- 
pect of  open  ports,  wheat  fell,  land  was  left  derelict, 
farmers  were  ruined,  labourers  in  thousands  went  on  the 
rates.  Nor  among  the  whirling  looms  of  Lancashire  or 
the  furnaces  of  Staffordshire  were  things  better.  Gov- 
ernment orders  ceased  with  the  war,  while  the  exhausted 
Continent  was  too  poor  to  buy.  Here  also  thousands 
were  cast  out  of  work. 

26 


A  WEDDING  MORNING  27 

The  cause  of  the  country's  misfortunes  might  be  this 
or  that.  Whatever  it  was,  the  working  classes  suffered 
greater  hardships  than  at  any  time  during  the  war ;  and 
finding  no  anxiety  to  sympathise  in  a  Parliament  which 
represented  their  betters,  began  to  form — ominous  sign 
— clubs,  and  clubs  within  clubs,  and  to  seek  redress  by 
unlawful  means.  An  open  rising  broke  out  in  the  Fen 
country,  and  there  was  fighting  at  Littleport  and  Ely. 
There  were  riots  at  Spa  Fields  in  London,  where  murder 
was  committed;  and  there  were  riots  again,  which  al- 
most amounted  to  a  rebellion,  in  Derbyshire.  At  Stock- 
port  and  in  Birmingham  immense  mob  meetings  took 
place.  In  the  northern  counties  the  sky  was  reddened 
night  after  night  by  incendiary  fires.  In  the  Midlands 
looms  were  broken  and  furnaces  extinguished.  In  Lan- 
cashire and  Yorkshire  the  air  was  sullen  with  strikes  and 
secret  plottings,  and  spies,  and  cold  and  famine. 

In  the  year  1819  things  came  to  a  kind  of  head.  There 
was  a  meeting  at  Manchester  in  August.  It  was  such  a 
meeting  as  had  never  been  seen  in  England.  There  were 
sixty  thousand  at  it,  there  were  eighty  thousand,  there 
were  ninety  thousand — some  said  one,  some  said  the 
other.  It  was  so  large,  at  any  rate,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  say  that  it  was  not  dangerous;  and  beyond  doubt 
many  there  would  have  snatched  at  the  least  chance  of 
rapine.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  magistrates,  in  the  face 
of  so  great  a  concourse,  lost  their  heads.  They  ordered  a 
small  force  of  yeomanry  to  disperse  the  gathering.  The 
yeomanry  became  entangled — a  second  charge  was  need- 
ful: the  multitude  fled  every  way.  In  ten  minutes  the 
ground  was  clear;  but  six  lives  were  lost  and  seventy 
persons  were  injured. 

At  once  all  England  was  cleft  into  parties — that 


28  A  WEDDING  MORNING 

which  upheld  the  charge,  and  that  which  condemned  it. 
Feelings  which  had  been  confined  to  the  lower  orders 
spread  to  the  upper;  and  while  from  this  date  the  sec- 
tion which  was  to  pass  the  Eeform  Bill  took  new  shape, 
underground  more  desperate  enterprises  were  breeding. 
Undismayed  the  people  met  at  Paisley  and  at  Glasgow, 
and  at  each  place  there  were  collisions  with,  the  soldiery. 
Mr.  Bishop  had  grounds,  therefore,  for  his  opinion  of 
the  Government  of  which  he  shared  the  favour  with  the 
yeomanry — their  country's  bulwark  and  its  pride.  But 
it  is  a,  far  cry  to  Windermere,  and  no  offset  from  the 
storm  which  was  convulsing  Lancashire  stirred  the  face 
of  the  lake  when  Henrietta  opened  her  window  next 
morning  and  looked  out  on  the  day  which  was  to  change 
all  for  her.  The  air  was  still,  the  water  grey  and  smooth, 
no  gleam  of  sun  showed.  Yet  the  general  aspect  was 
mild ;  and  would  have  been  cheerful,  if  the  more  distant 
prospect  which  for  the  first  time  broke  upon  Henrietta's 
eyes  had  not  raised  it  and  her  thoughts  to  the  sublime. 
Beyond  the  water,  above  the  green  slopes  and  wooded 
knobs  which  fringed  the  lake,  rose,  ridge  behind  ridge, 
a  wall  of  mountains.  It  stretched  from  the  Peak  of 
Coniston  on  the  left,  by  the  long  snow-flecked  screes  of 
Bow  Fell,  to  the  icy  points  of  the  Langdales  on  the 
right — a  new  world,  remote,  clear,  beautiful,  and  still: 
.so  still,  so  remote,  that  it  seemed  to  preach  a  sermon — 
to  calm  the  hurry  of  her  morning  thoughts,  and  the  tu- 
mult of  youth  within  her.  She  stood  awhile  in  awe.  But 
her  hair  was  about  her  shoulders,  she  was  only  half- 
dressed;  and  by-and-by,  when  her  first  surprise  waned, 
she  bethought  herself  that  he  might  be  below,  and  she 
drew  back  from  the  window  with  a  blush.  What  more 
likely,  what  more  loverlike,  than  that  he  should  be  be- 


A  WEDDING  MORNING  29 

low?  Waiting — on  this  morning  which  was  to  crown 
his  hopes — for  the  first  sight  of  her  face,  the  first  open- 
ing of  her  lattice,  the  gleam  of  her  white  arm  on  the  sill  ? 
Had  it  been  summer,  and  had  the  rose-tree  which  framed 
the  window  been  in  bloom,  what  joy  to  drop  with  trem- 
bling fingers  a  bud  to  him,  and  to  know  that  he  would 
treasure  it  all  his  life — her  last  maiden  gift !  And  he  ? 
Surely  he  would  have  sent  her  an  armful  to  await  her 
rising,  that  as  she  dressed  she  might  plunge  her  face 
into  their  perfume,  and  silently  plighting  her  troth  to 
him,  renew  the  pure  resolves  which  she  had  made  in  the 
night  hours ! 

But  when  she  peeped  out  shyly,  telling  herself  that 
she  was  foolish  to  blush,  and  that  the  time  for  blushing 
was  past,  she  failed  to  discover  him.  There  was  a  girl — 
handsome  after  a  dark  fashion — seated  on  a  low  wall  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  road ;  and  a  group  of  four  or  five 
men  were  standing  in  front  of  the  inn  door,  talking  in 
excited  tones.  Conceivably  he  might  be  one  of  the  men, 
for  she  could  hear  them  better  than  she  could  see  them — 
the  door  being  a  good  deal  to  one  side.  But  when  she 
had  cautiously  opened  her  window  and  put  out  her  head 
— her  hair  by  this  time  being  dressed — he  was  not  among 
them. 

She  was  drawing  in  her  head,  uncertain  whether  to 
pout  or  not,  when  her  eyes  met  those  of  the  young  woman 
on  the  wall;  and  the  latter  smiled.  Possibly  she  had 
noted  the  direction  of  Henrietta's  glance,  and  drawn  her 
inference.  At  any  rate,  her  smile  was  so  marked  and  so 
malicious  that  Henrietta  felt  her  cheek  grow  hot,  and 
lost  no  time  in  drawing  back  and  closing  the  window. 

"What  a  horrid  girl !"  she  exclaimed. 

Still,  after  the  first  flush  of  annoyance,  she  would  have 


30  A  WEDDING  MORNING 

thought  no  more  of  it — would  indeed  have  laughed  at 
herself  for  her  fancy — if  Mrs.  Gilson's  strident  voice  had 
not  at  that  moment  brought  the  girl  to  her  feet. 

"Bess!  Bess  Hinkson!"  the  landlady  cried,  appar- 
ently from  the  doorway.  "Hast  come  with  the  milk? 
Then  come  right  in  and  let  me  have  it?  What  are  you 
gaping  at  there,  you  gaby  ?  What  has't  to  do  with  thee  ? 
I  do  think" — with  venom — "the  world  is  full  of  fools !" 

The  girl  with  a  sullen  air  took  up  a  milk-pail  that 
stood  beside  her;  she  wore  the  short  linsey  petticoat  of 
the  rustic  of  that  day,  and  a  homespun  bodice.  Her  hair, 
brilliantly  black,  and  as  thick  as  a  horse's  mane,  was 
covered  only  by  a  handkerchief  knotted  under  her  chin. 

"Bess  Hinkson?  What  a  horrid  name!"  Henrietta 
muttered  as  she  watched  her  cross  the  road.  She  did  not 
dream  that  she  would  ever  see  the  girl  again :  the  more  as 
the  men's  voices — she  was  nearly  ready  to  descend — 
fixed  her  attention  next.  She  caught  a  word,  then  lis- 
tened. 

"The  devil's  in  it  if  he's  not  gone  Whitehaven  way!" 
one  said.  "That's  how  he's  gone!  Through  Carlisle, 
say  you?  Not  he!" 

"But  without  a  horse  ?    He'd  no  horse." 

"And  what  if  he'd  not?"  the  first  speaker  retorted, 
with  the  impatience  of  superior  intellect.  "It's  Tues- 
day, the  day  of  the  Man  packet-boat,  and  he'd  be  away 
in  her." 

"But  the  packet  don't  leave  Whitehaven  till  noon,"  a 
third  struck  in.  "And  they'll  be  there  and  nab  him  be- 
fore that.  S'help  me,  he  has  not  gone  Whitehaven  way !" 

"Maybe  he'd  take  a  boat?" 

"He'd  lack  the  time" — with  scorn. 

"He's  took  a  boat  here,"  another  maintained.    "Thaf  s 


A  WEDDING  MORNING  31 

what  he  has  done.  He's  took  a  boat  here  and  gone  down 
in  the  dark  to  Newby  Bridge." 

"But  there's  not  a  boat  gone!"  another  speaker  re- 
torted in  triumph.  "What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

So  far  Henrietta's  ear  followed  the  argument;  but  her 
mind  lagged  at  the  point  where  the  matter  touched  her. 

"The  Man  packet-boat?"  she  thought,  as  she  tied  the 
last  ribbon  at  her  neck  and  looked  sideways  at  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  squat,  filmy  mirror.  "That  must  be  the 
boat  to  the  Isle  of  Man.  It  leaves  Whitehaven  the  same 
day  as  the  Scotch  boat,  then.  Perhaps  there  is  but  one, 
and  it  goes  on  to  the  Isle  of  Man.  And  I  shall  go  by  it. 
And  then — and  then " 

A  knock  at  the  door  severed  the  thread,  and  drove  the 
unwonted  languor  from  her  eyes.  She  cast  a  last  look  at 
her  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  turned  herself  about  that 
she  might  review  her  back-hair.  Then  she  swept  the 
table  with  her  eye,  and  began  to  stuff  this  and  that  into 
her  bandbox.  The  knock  was  repeated. 

"I  am  coming,"  she  cried.  She  cast  one  very  last  look 
round  the  room,  and,  certain  that  she  had  left  nothing, 
took  up  her  bonnet  and  a  shawl  which  she  had  used  for  a 
wrap  over  her  riding-dress.  She  crossed  the  room  to- 
wards the  door.  As  she  raised  her  hand  to  the  latch,  a 
smile  lurked  in  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks.  There  was  a 
gleam  of  fun  in  her  eyes;  the  lighter  side  of  her  was 
uppermost  again. 

It  was  not  her  lover,  however,  who  stood  waiting  out- 
side, but  Modest  Ann — she  went  commonly  by  that  name 
— the  waiting-maid  of  the  inn,  who  was  said  to  mould 
herself  on  her  mistress  and  to  be  only  a  trifle  less  formid- 
able when  roused.  The  two  were  something  alike,  for  the 
maid  was  buxom  and  florid;  and  fame  told  of  battles 


32  A  WEDDING  MORNING 

between  them  whence  no  ordinary  woman,  no  ordinary 
tongue,  no  mortal  save  Mrs.  Gilson,  could  have  issued 
victorious.  Fame  had  it  also  that  Modest  Ann  remained 
after  her  defeat  only  by  reason  of  an  attachment,  held 
by  most  to  be  hopeless,  to  the  head  ostler.  And  for  cer- 
tain, severe  as  she  was,  she  permitted  some  liberty  of 
speech  on  the  subject. 

Henrietta,  however,  did  not  know  that  here  was  an- 
other slave  of  love ;  and  her  face  fell. 

"Is  Mr.  Stewart  waiting?"  she  asked. 

"No,  miss,"  the  woman  answered,  civilly  enough,  but 
staring  as  if  she  could  never  see  enough  of  her.  "But 
Mrs.  Gilson  will  be  glad  if  you'll  speak  to  her." 

Henrietta  raised  her  eyebrows.  It  was  on  the  tip  of 
her  tongue  to  answer,  "Then  let  her  come  to  me !"  But 
she  remembered  that  these  people  did  not  know  who  she 
was — knew  indeed  nothing  of  her.  And  she  answered 
instead:  "I  will  come.  Where  is  she?" 

"This  way,  miss.    I'll  show  you  the  way." 

Henrietta  wondered,  as  the  woman  conducted  her 
along  several  low-ceiled  passages,  and  up  and  down  odd 
stairs,  and  past  windows  which  disclosed  the  hill  rising 
immediately  at  the  back  of  the  house,  what  the  landlady 
wanted. 

"She  is  an  odious  woman!"  she  thought,  with  impa- 
tience. "  How  horrid  she  was  to  me  last  night !  If  ever 
there  was  a  bully,  she  is  one!  And  this  creature  looks 
not  much  better !" 

Modest  Ann,  turning  her  head  at  the  moment,  belied 
the  ill  opinion  by  pointing  out  a  step  in  a  dark  corner. 

"There  is  a  stair  here,  miss,"  she  said.    "Take  care." 

"Thank  you,"  Henrietta  answered  in  her  clear,  girlish 
voice.  "Is  Mr.  Stewart  with  Mrs. What's  her  name?" 


A  WEDDING  MORNING  33 

"Mrs.  Gilson?    No,  miss." 

And  pausing,  the  woman  opened  a  door,  and  made 
way  for  Henrietta  to  enter. 

At  that  instant — and  strange  to  say,  not  before — a 
dreadful  suspicion  leapt  up  in  the  girl's  brain.  What  if 
her  brother  had  followed  her,  and  was  there?  Or  worse 
still,  Captain  Clyne?  What  if  she  were  summoned  to 
be  confronted  with  them  and  to  be  taken  home  in  shame- 
ful durance,  after  the  fashion  of  a  naughty  child  that 
had  behaved  badly  and  was  in  disgrace  ?  The  fire  sprang 
to  her  eyes,  her  cheeks  burnt.  It  was  too  late  to  retreat ; 
but  her  pretty  head  went  up  in  the  air,  and  her  look  as 
she  entered  spoke  flat  rebellion.  She  swept  the  room 
with  a  glance  of  flame. 

However,  there  was  no  one  to  be  burned  up :  no  broth- 
er, no  slighted,  abandoned  suitor.  In  the  room,  a  good- 
sized,  pleasant  room,  looking  on  the  lake,  were  only  Mrs. 
Gilson,  who  stood  beside  the  table,  which  was  laid  for 
breakfast,  and  a  strange  man.  The  man  was  gazing 
from  the  window,  but  he  turned  abruptly,  disclosing  a 
red  waistcoat,  as  her  eye  fell  on  him.  She  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  in  great  surprise,  in  growing  surprise. 
What  did  the  man  there? 

"Where  is  Mr.  Stewart?"  she  asked,  her  frigid  tone 
expressing  her  feelings.  "  Is  he  not  here  ?" 

Mrs.  Gilson  seemed  about  to  answer,  but  the  man  fore- 
stalled her. 

"No,  miss,"  he  said,  "he  is  not." 

"Where  is  he?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  undisguised  sharpness. 

Mr.  Bishop  nodded  like  a  man  well  pleased. 

"That  is  the  point,  miss,"  he  answered — "precisely. 
Where  is  he?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO  TO  ONE 

HENRIETTA,  high-spirited  and  thoughtless,  was  more 
prone  to  anger  than  to  fear,  to  resentment  than  to  pa- 
tience. But  all  find  something  formidable  in  the  un- 
known ;  and  the  presence  of  this  man  who  spoke  with  so 
much  aplomb,  and  referred  to  her  lover  as  if  he  had  some 
concern  in  him,  was  enough  to  inspire  her  with  fear  and 
set  her  on  her  guard.  Nevertheless,  she  could  not  quite 
check  the  first  impulse  to  resentment;  the  man's  very 
presence  was  a  liberty,  and  her  tone  when  she  spoke  be- 
trayed her  sense  of  this. 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  she  said,  "that  Mr.  Stewart  can 
be  found  if  you  wish  to  see  him."  She  turned  to  Mrs. 
Gilson.  "Be  good  enough,"  she  said,  "to  send  some  one 
in  search  of  him." 

"I  have  done  that  already,"  the  man  Bishop  answered. 

The  landlady,  who  did  not  move,  seemed  tongue-tied. 
But  she  did  not  take  her  eyes  off  the  girl. 

Henrietta  frowned.  She  threw  her  bonnet  and  shawl 
on  a  side-table. 

"Be  good  enough  to  send  again,  then,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing and  speaking  in  the  indifferent  tone  of  one  who  was 
wont  to  have  her  orders  obeyed.  "He  is  probably  within 
call.  The  chaise  is  ordered  for  ten." 

Bishop  advanced  a  step  and  tapped  the  palm  of  one 
hand  with  the  fingers  of  the  other. 

34 


TWO  TO  ONE  35 

"That  is  the  point,  miss!"  he  said  impressively. 
"You've  hit  it.  The  chaise  is  ordered  for  ten.  It  is 
nine  now,  within  a  minute — and  the  gentleman  cannot 
be  found." 

"Cannot  be  found?"  she  echoed,  in  astonishment  at 
his  familiarity.  "Cannot  be  found?"  She  turned  im- 
periously to  Mrs.  Gilson.  "What  does  this  person 
mean?"  she  said.  And  her  tone  was  brave.  But  the 
colour  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  first  nutter 
of  alarm  darkened  her  eyes. 

The  landlady  found  her  voice. 

"He  means,"  she  said  bluntly,  "that  he  did  not  sleep 
in  his  bed  last  night." 

"Mr.  Stewart?" 

"The  gentleman  who  came  with  you." 

"Oh,  but,"  Henrietta  cried,  "you  must  be  jesting?" 
She  would  not,  she  could  not,  give  way  to  the  doubt  that 
assailed  her. 

"It  is  no  jest,"  Bishop  answered  gravely,  and  with 
something  like  pity  in  his  voice.  For  the  girl  looked  very 
fair  and  very  young,  and  wore  her  dignity  prettily.  "It 
is  no  jest,  miss,  believe  me.  But  perhaps  we  could  read 
the  riddle — we  should  know  more,  at  any  rate — if  you 
were  to  tell  us  from  what  part  you  came  yesterday." 

But  she  had  her  wits  about  her,  and  she  was  not  going 
to  tell  them  that!  No,  no!  Moreover,  on  the  instant 
she  had  a  thought — that  this  was  no  jest,  but  a  trick,  a 
cruel,  cowardly  trick,  to  draw  from  her  the  knowledge 
which  they  wanted,  and  which  she  must  not  give !  Be- 
yond doubt  that  was  it;  she  snatched  thankfully  at  the 
notion.  This  odious  woman,  taking  advantage  of  Stew- 
art's momentary  absence,  had  called  in  the  man,  and 
thought  to  bully  her,  a  young  girl  in  a  strange  place,  out 


36  TWO  TO  ONE 

of  the  information  which  she  had  wished  to  get  the 
night  before. 

The  impertinents !  But  she  would  be  a  match  for 
them. 

"That  is  my  affair,"  she  said. 

"But " 

"And  will  remain  so!"  she  continued  warmly.  "For 
the  rest,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  this  is  a  trap  of 
some  sort !  If  so,  you  may  be  sure  that  Mr.  Stewart  will 
know  how  to  resent  it,  and  any  impertinence  offered  to 
me.  You" — she  turned  suddenly  upon  Mrs.  Gilson — • 
"you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !" 

Mrs.  Gilson  nodded  oracularly. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  somebody,"  she  said. 

The  girl  thought  that  she  was  gaining  the  advantage. 

"Then  at  once,"  she  said,  "let  Mr.  Stewart  know  that 
I  am  waiting  for  him.  Do  you  hear,  madam?"  she 
stamped  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and  looked  the  pretty 
fury  to  the  life.  "And  see  that  this  person  leaves  the 
room.  Good-morning,  sir.  You  will  hear  from  Mr. 
Stewart  what  I  think  of  your  intrusion." 

Bishop  opened  his  mouth  to  reply.  But  he  caught 
Mrs.  Gilson's  eye ;  and  by  a  look,  such  a  look  as  appalled 
even  the  Bow  Street  runner's  stout  heart,  she  indicated 
the  door.  After  a  second  of  hesitation  he  passed  out 
meekly. 

When  he  was  gone,  "Very  good,  miss,"  the  landlady 
said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  restrained  her  temper  with 
difficulty — "very  good.  But  if  you're  to  be  ready  you'd 
best  eat  your  breakfast — if,  that  is,  it  is  good  enough  for 
you !"  she  added.  And  with  a  very  grim  face  she  swept 
from  the  room  and  left  Henrietta  in  possession  of  the 
field. 


TWO  TO  ONE  37 

The  girl  sprang  to  the  window  and  looked  up  and 
down  the  road.  She  had  the  same  view  of  the  mild  au- 
tumn morning,  of  the  grey  lake  and  distant  range  of 
hills  which  had  calmed  her  thoughts  an  hour  earlier. 
But  the  beauty  of  the  scene  availed  nothing  now.  She 
was  flushed  with  vexation — impatient,  resentful.  Where 
was  he  ?  He  was  not  in  sight.  Then  where  could  he  be  ? 
And  why  did  he  leave  her  ?  Did  he  think  that  he  need 
no  longer  press  his  suit,  that  the  need  for  pettis  soins  and 
attentions  was  over  ?  Oh,  but  she  would  show  him !  And 
in  a  moment  all  the  feelings  of  the  petted,  spoiled  girl 
were  up  in  arms. 

"They  are  horrid !"  she  cried,  angry  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"It's  an  outrage — a  perfect  outrage!  And  he  is  no  bet- 
ter. How  dare  he  leave  me,  this  morning  of  all  morn- 
ings?" 

On  which  there  might  have  stolen  into  her  mind — so 
monstrous  did  his  neglect  seem — a  doubt,  a  suspicion; 
the  doubt  and  the  suspicion  which  she  repelled  a  few 
minutes  earlier.  But,  as  she  turned,  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
breakfast-table;  and  vexation  was  not  proof  against  a 
healthy  appetite. 

"I  will  show  him,"  she  thought  resentfully,  "that  I 
am  not  so  dependent  on  him  as  he  thinks.  I  shall  not 
wait — I  shall  take  my  breakfast.  That  odious  woman 
was  right  for  once." 

And  she  sat  down  in  the  seat  placed  for  her.  But  as 
quickly  she  was  up  again,  and  at  the  oval  glass  over  the 
mantel — where  Samuel  Eogers  had  often  viewed  his 
cadaverous  face — to  inspect  herself  and  be  sure  that  she 
was  looking  her  best,  so  that  his  despair,  when  he  came 
and  found  her  cold  and  distant,  would  be  the  deeper. 
Soon  satisfied,  she  returned,  smiling  dangerously,  to  her 


38  TWO  TO  ONE 

seat ;  and  this  time  she  fell-to  upon  the  eggs  and  girdle- 
cakes,  and  the  home-cured  ham,  and  the  tea  at  ten  shil- 
lings a  pound.  The  room  had  a  window  to  the  lake  and 
a  second  window  which  looked  to  the  south  and  was  not 
far  from  the  first.  Though  low-ceiled,  it  was  of  a  fair 
size,  with  a  sunk  cupboard,  with  glazed  upper  doors,  on 
each  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  cushioned  seats  in  the 
window-places.  In  a  recess  near  the  door — the  room 
was  full  of  corners — were  book-shelves ;  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  stood  a  tall  clock  with  a  very  pale  face. 
The  furniture  was  covered  with  some  warm  red  stuff, 
well  worn;  and  an  air  of  that  snug  comfort  which  was 
valued  by  Englishmen  of  the  day  pervaded  all,  and 
went  well  with  the  scent  of  the  China  tea. 

But  neither  tea  nor  comfort,  nor  the  cheerful  blaze 
on  the  hearth,  could  long  hold  Henrietta's  thoughts; 
nor  resentment  repress  her  anxiety.  Presently  she  began 
to  listen  after  every  mouthful :  her  fork  was  as  often 
suspended  as  at  work.  Her  pretty  face  grew  troubled 
and  her  brow  more  deeply  puckered,  until  her  wandering 
eye  fell  on  the  clock,  and  she  saw  that  the  slowly  jerking 
hand  was  on  the  verge  of  the  half -hour. 

Then  she  sprang  up,  honestly  frightened.  She  flew 
to  the  window  that  looked  on  the  lake  and  peered  out 
anxiously;  thence  to  the  side  window,  but  she  got  no 
glimpse  of  him.  She  came  back  distracted  to  the  table 
and  stood  pressing  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  What  if  they 
were  right,  and  he  had  not  slept  in  his  bed?  What  if 
something  had  happened  to  him?  But  that  was  im- 
possible! Impossible!  Things  did  not  happen  on 
such  mornings  as  this !  On  wedding  mornings !  Yet 
if  that  were  the  case,  and  they  had  sent  for  her  that 
they  might  break  it  to  her — and  then  their  hearts,  even 


TWO  TO  ONE  39 

that  woman's  heart,  had  failed  them?  What — what 
then? 

She  was  trying  to  repel  the  thought  when  she  fancied 
that  she  heard  a  sound  at  the  door,  and  with  a  gasp  of 
relief  she  looked  up.  If  he  had  entered  at  that  moment, 
she  would  have  flung  herself  into  his  arms  and  forgiven 
all  and  forgotten  all.  But  he  did  not  enter,  and  her 
heart  sank  again,  and  lower.  She  went  slowly  to  the 
door  and  listened,  and  found  that  the  sound  which  she 
had  heard  was  caused  by  the  whispering  of  persons  out- 
side. 

She  summoned  her  pride  to  her  aid  then.  She  opened 
the  door  to  its  full  extent  and  walked  back  to  the  table, 
and  turning,  waited  haughtily  for  them  to  enter.  But 
to  speak,  to  command  her  voice,  was  harder,  and  it  was 
all  she  could  do  to  murmur, 

"Something  has  happened  to  him" — her  lip  fluttered 
ominously — "and  you  have  come  to  tell  me  ?" 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of,"  Bishop  answered  cheer- 
fully. He  and  the  landlady  had  walked  in  and  closed 
the  door  behind  them.  "Nothing  at  all." 

"No?"     She  could  hardly  believe  him. 

"Not  the  least  thing  in  life,  miss,"  he  repeated.  "He's 
alive  and  well  for  what  I  know — alive  and  well !" 

She  sat  down  on  a  chair  that  stood  beside  her,  and 
the  colour  flowed  back  to  her  cheeks.  She  laughed 
weakly. 

"I  was  afraid  that  something  had  happened,"  she 
murmured. 

"No,"  Mr.  Bishop  answered,  more  seriously,  "it's  not 
that.  It's  not  that,  miss.  But  all  the  same  it's  trouble. 
Now  if  you  were  to  tell  me,"  he  continued,  leaning  for- 
ward persuasively,  "where  you  come  from,  I  need  have 


40  TWO  TO  ONE 

hardly  a  word  with  you.  I  can  see  you're  a  lady;  your 
friends  will  come;  and,  s'help  me,  in  six  months  you'll 
have  your  matie  again,  and  not  know  it  happened  ! 


"I  shall  not  tell  you,"  she  said. 

The  officer  shook  his  head,  surprised  by  her  firmness. 

"Come  now,  miss  —  be  advised,"  he  urged.  "Be  rea- 
sonable. Just  think  for  once  that  others  may  know 
better  than  you,  and  save  me  the  trouble  —  that's  a  good 
young  lady."  . 

But  the  wheedling  appeal,  the  familiar  tone,  grated  on 
her.  Her  fingers,  tapping  on  the  table,  betrayed  im- 
patience as  well  as  alarm. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  with  some  return 
of  her  former  distance.  "If  nothing  has  happened  to 
Mr.  Stewart,  I  do  not  understand  what  you  can  have  to 
say  to  me,  nor  why  you  are  here." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Well,  miss,"  he  said,  "if  you  must  have  it,  you  must. 
I'm  bound  to  say  you  are  not  a  young  lady  to  take  a 
hint." 

That  frightened  her. 

"If  nothing  has  happened  to  him  -  "  she  murmured, 
and  looked  from  one  to  the  other;  from  Mr.  Bishop's 
smug  face  to  the  landlady's  stolid  visage. 

"It's  not  what  has  happened  to  him,"  the  runner 
answered  bluntly.  "It  is  what  is  likely  to  happen  to 
him." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke  a  large  leather 
case,  unstrapped  it,  and  put  the  strap,  which  would  have 
handily  spliced  a  cart-trace  of  these  days,  between  his 
teeth.  Then  he  carefully  selected  from  the  mass  of 
papers  which  the  case  contained  a  single  letter.  It  was 


TWO  TO  ONE  41 

written,  as  the  letters  of  that  day  were  written,  on  three 
sides  of  a  square  sheet  of  coarsish  paper.  The  fourth 
side  served  for  envelope — that  is,  it  bore  the  address  and 
seal.  But  Bishop  was  careful  to  fold  the  letter  in  such 
a  way  that  these  and  the  greater  part  of  the  writing  were 
hidden.  He  proffered  the  paper,  so  arranged,  to  Hen- 
rietta. 

"D'you  know  the  handwriting,"  he  asked,  "of  that 
letter,  miss?" 

She  had  watched  his  actions  with  fascinated  eyes, 
and  could  not  think,  could  not  imagine,  whither  they 
tended.  She  was  really  frightened  now.  But  her  mettle 
was  high ;  she  had  the  nerves  of  youth,  and  she  hid  her 
dismay.  The  hand  with  which  she  took  the  letter  was 
steady  as  a  rock,  the  manner  with  which  she  looked  at 
it  composed;  but  no  sooner  had  her  eyes  fallen  on  the 
writing  than  she  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  the  colour 
rose  to  her  cheeks. 

"How  did  you  get  this?"  she  cried. 

"No,  miss,  no,"  the  runner  answered.  "One  at  a 
time.  The  question  is,  Do  you  know  the  fist  ?  The  hand- 
writing, I  mean.  But  I  see  you  do." 

"It  is  Mr.  Stewart's,"  she  answered. 

He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Gilson  as  if  to  bespeak  her  at- 
tention. 

"Just  so,"  he  said.  "It  is  Mr.  Stewart's.  And  I 
warrant  you  have  others  like  it,  and  could  prove  the  fact 
if  it  were  needed.  No — don't  read  it,  miss,  if  you 
please,"  he  continued.  "You  can  tell  me  without  that 
whether  the  gentleman  has  any  friends  in  these  parts." 

"None." 

"That  you  know  of?" 

"I  never  heard  of  any,"  she  answered.    Her  astonish- 


42  TWO  TO  ONE 

merit  was  so  great  that  she  did  not  now  think  of  refusing 
to  answer.  And  besides,  here  was  his  handwriting. 
And  why  did  he  not  come?  The  clock  was  on  the  point 
of  striking;  at  this  hour,  at  this  minute,  they  should 
have  heen  leaving  the  door  of  the  inn. 

"No,  miss,"  Bishop  answered,  exchanging  a  look  with 
the  landlady.  "Just  so,  you've  never  heard  of  any.  Then 
one  more  question,  if  you  please.  You  are  going  north, 
to  Scotland,  to  be  married  to-day?  Now  which  way,  I 
wonder?" 

She  frowned  at  him  in  silence.  She  began  to  see  his 
drift. 

"By  Keswick  and  Carlisle?"  he  continued,  watching 
her  face.  "  Or  by  Kendal  and  Penrith  ?  Or  by  Cocker- 
mouth  and  Whitehaven  ?  But  no.  There's  only  the  Isle 
of  Man  packet  out  of  Whitehaven." 

"It  goes  on  to  Dumfries,"  she  said.  The  words  escaped 
her  in  spite  of  herself. 

He  smiled  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said;  "it'd  be  a  very  long  way  round  if  it 
did.  But  Mr.  Stewart  told  you  that,  did  he?  I  see 
he  did.  Well,  you've  had  an  escape,  miss.  That's  all 
I  can  say." 

The  colour  rose  to  her  very  brow,  but  her  eyes  met 
his  boldly. 

"How?"  she  said.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"How?"  he  repeated.  "If  you  knew,  miss,  who  the 
man  was — your  Mr.  Stewart — you'd  know  how — and 
what  you  have  escaped !" 

"Who  he  was?"  she  muttered. 

"Ay,  who  he  was!"  he  retorted.  "I  can  tell  you  this 
at  least,  young  lady,"  he  added  bluntly,  "he's  the  man 
that's  very  badly  wanted — uncommonly  badly  wanted!" 


TWO  TO  ONE  43 

— with  a  grin — "in  more  places  than  one,  but  nowhere 
more  than  where  he  came  from." 

"Wanted?"  she  said,  the  colour  fading  in  her  cheek. 
"For  what?  What  do  you  mean?" 

"For  what?" 

"That  is  what  I  asked." 

His  face  was  a  picture  of  importance  and  solemnity. 
He  looked  at  the  landlady  as  much  as  to  say,  "See  how 
I  will  prostrate  her !"  But  nothing  indicated  his  sense 
of  the  avowal  he  was  going  to  make  so  much  as  the  fact 
that  instead  of  raising  his  voice  he  lowered  it. 

"You  shall  have  the  answer,  miss,  though  I  thought 
to  spare  you,"  he  said.  "He's  wanted  for  being  an  un- 
common desperate  villain,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  For  trea- 
son, and  misprision  of  treason,  and  conspiracy.  Ay,  but 
that's  the  man  you've  come  away  with,"  shaking  his  head 
solemnly.  "He's  wanted  for  bloody  conspiracy — ay,  it 
is  so  indeed — equal  to  any  Guy  Fawkes,  against  my  lord 
the  King,  his  crown  and  dignity !  Seven  indictments — 
and  not  mere  counts,  miss — have  been  found  against  him, 
and  those  who  were  with  him,  and  him  the  worst !  And 
when  he's  taken,  as  he's  sure  to  be  taken  by-and-by,  he'll 
suffer !"  And  Mr.  Bishop  nodded  portentously. 

Her  face  was  quite  white  now. 

"Mr.  Stewart?"  she  gasped. 

"You  call  him  Stewart,"  the  runner  replied  coolly. 
"I  call  him  Walterson — Walterson  the  younger.  But  he 
has  passed  by  a  capful  of  names.  Anyway,  he's  wanted 
for  the  business  in  Spa  Fields  in  '16,  and  half  a  dozen 
things  besides !" 

The  colour  returned  to  Henrietta's  cheeks  with  a  rush. 
Her  fine  eyes  glowed,  her  lips  parted. 

"A  conspirator!"  she  murmured.     "A  conspirator!" 


44  TWO  TO  ONE 

She  fondled  the  word  as  if  it  had  been  "love"  or 
"kisses."  "I  suppose,  then,"  she  continued,  with  a  side- 
long look  at  Bishop,  "if  he  were  taken  he  would  lose  his 
life?" 

"Sure  as  eggs!" 

Henrietta  drew  a  deep  breath;  and  with  the  same 
sidelong  look : 

"He  would  be  beheaded — in  the  Tower?" 

The  runner  laughed  with  much  enjoyment. 

"Lord  save  your  innocent  heart,  miss,"  he  said — "no! 
He  would  just  hang  outside  Newgate." 

She  shuddered  violently  at  that.  The  glow  of  eye  and 
cheek  faded,  and  tears  rose  instead.  She  walked  to  a 
window,  and  with  her  back  to  them  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief.  Then  she  turned. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said. 

"Good  God!"  Bishop  cried.  He  stared,  nonplussed. 
"Is  that  all?"  he  said.  "Would  you  have  more?" 

"Neither  more  nor  less,"  she  answered — between  tears 
and  smiles,  if  his  astonished  eyes  did  not  deceive  him. 
"  For  now  I  know — I  know  why  he  left  me,  why  he  is  not 
here." 

"Good  lord!" 

"If  you  thought,  sir,"  she  continued,  drawing  herself 
up  and  speaking  with  indignation,  "that  because  he  was 
in  danger,  because  he  was  proscribed,  because  a  price 
was  set  on  his  head,  I  should  desert  him,  and  betray  him, 
and  sell  his  secrets  to  you — I,  his  wife — you  were  indeed 
mistaken !" 

"But  damme !"  Mr.  Bishop  cried  in  amazement  almost 
too  great  for  words,  "you  are  not  his  wife!" 

"In  the  sight  of  Heaven,"  she  answered  firmly,  "I 
am !"  She  was  shaking  with  excitement.  "In  the  sight 


TWO  TO  ONE  45 

of  Heaven  I  am!"  she  repeated  solemnly.  And  so  real 
was  the  feeling  that  she  forgot  for  the  moment  the  situa- 
tion in  which  her  lover's  flight  had  left  her.  She  forgot 
herself,  forgot  all  but  the  danger  that  menaced  him,  and 
the  resolution  that  never,  never,  never  should  it  part 
her  from  him. 

Mr.  Bishop  would  fain  have  answered  fittingly,  and 
to  that  end  sought  words.  But  he  found  none  strong 
enough. 

"Well,- 1  ain  dashed!"  was  all  he  could  find  to  say. 
"I  am  dashed!"  Then — the  thing  was  too  much  for 
one — he  sought  support  in  Mrs.  Gilson's  eye.  "There, 
ma'am,"  he  said  vehemently,  extending  one  hand,  "I 
ask  you !  You  are  a  woman  of  sense !  I  ask  you !  Did 
you  ever?  Did  you  ever,  out  of  London  or  in  London?" 

The  landlady's  answer  was  as  downright  as  it  was  un- 
welcome. 

"I  never  see  such  a  fool!"  she  said,  "if  that's  what 
you  mean.  And  you" — with  scorn — "to  call  yourself  a 
Bow  Street  man!  Bow  Street?  Bah!" 

Mr.  Bishop  opened  his  mouth. 

"A  parish  constable's  a  Solomon  to  you!"  she  con- 
tinued, before  he  could  speak. 

His  face  was  purple,  his  surprise  ludicrous. 

"To  me?"  he  ejaculated  incredulously.  "S'help 
me,  ma'am,  you  are  mad,  or  I  am !  What  have  I 
done?" 

"It's  not  what  you've  done!"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered 
grimly.  "  It's  what  you've  left  undone !  Oh,  you  gaby!" 
she  continued,  with  unction.  "You  poor  creature !  You 
bag  of  goose- feathers !  D'you  know  no  more  of  women 
than  that?  Why,  I've  kept  my  mouth  shut  the  last  ten 
blessed  minutes  for  nothing  else  but  to  see  what  a  fool 


46  TWO  TO  ONE 

you'd  make  of  yourself !  And  for  certain  it  was  not  for 
nothing!" 

Henrietta  tapped  the  table. 

"Perhaps  when  you've  done,"  she  said,  with  tragic 
dignity,  "you  will  both  be  good  enough  to  leave  the 
room.  I  desire  to  be  alone." 

Her  eyes  were  like  stars.  In  her  voice  was  an  odd 
mixture  of  elation  and  alarm. 

Mrs.  Gilson  turned  on  the  instant  and  engaged  her. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense!"  she  said.  "Desire  to  be  alone 
indeed !  You  deserve  to  be  alone,  miss,  with  bread  and 
water,  and  the  lock  on  the  door !  Oh,  you  may  stare ! 
But  do  you  do  now  what  he  should  have  made  you  do  a 
half-hour  ago!  And  then  you'll  feel  a  little  less  like 
a  play  actress  !  Alone  indeed  !  Read  that  letter  and  tell 
me  then  what  you  think  of  yourself !" 

Henrietta's  eyes  sparkled  with  anger,  but  she  fought 
hard  for  her  dignity. 

"I  am  not  used  to  impertinence,"  she  said.  "You  for- 
get yourself!" 

"Bead,"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted,  "and  say  what  you  like 
then.  You'll  have  little  stomach  for  saying  anything," 
she  added  in  an  undertone,  "or  I'm  a  Dutchman!" 

Henrietta  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  read  under  protest, 
and  she  did  so  with  a  smile  of  contempt.  In  the  circum- 
stances it  seemed  the  easier  course.  But  alas !  as  she 
read,  her  pretty,  angry  face  changed.  She  had  that  ex- 
treme delicacy  of  complexion  which  betrays  the  least  ebb 
and  flow  of  feeling:  and  in  turn  perplexity,  wonder,  re- 
sentment, all  were  painted  there,  and  vividly.  She  looked 
up. 

"To  whom  was  this  written?"  she  asked,  her  voice 
unsteady. 


TWO  TO  ONE  47 

Mrs.  Gilson  was  pitiless. 

"Look  at  the  beginning !"  she  answered. 

The  girl  turned  back  mechanically,  and  read  that 
which  she  had  read  before.  But  then  with  surprise ;  now 
with  dread. 

"Who  is— Sally?"  she  muttered. 

Despite  herself,  her  voice  seemed  to  fail  her  on  the 
word.  And  she  dared  not  meet  their  eyes. 

"Who's  Sally?"  Mrs.  Gilson  repeated  briskly.  "Why, 
his  wife,  to  be  sure !  Who  should  she  be  ?" 


CHAPTEE  V 

A  JEZEBEL 

THERE  was  a  loud  drumming  in  Henrietta's  ears,  and 
a  dimness  before  her  eyes.  In  the  midst  of  this  a  voice, 
which  she  would  not  have  known  for  her  own,  cried 
loudly  and  clearly,  "No!"  And  again,  more  violently, 
"No!" 

"But  it  is  'Yes'.!"  the  landlady  answered  coolly. 
"Why  not?  D'you  think" — with  rough  contempt — 
"he's  the  first  man  that's  lied  to  a  woman?  or  you're 
the  first  woman  that's  believed  a  rascal  ?  She's  his  wife 
right  enough,  my  girl" — comfortably.  "Don't  he  ask 
after  his  children  ?  If  you'll  turn  to  the  bottom  of  the 
second  page  you'll  see  for  yourself !  Oh,  quite  the  family 
man,  he  is !" 

The  girl's  hand  shook  like  ash-leaves  in  a  light  breeze ; 
the  paper  rustled  in  her  grasp.  But  she  had  regained 
command  of  herself — she  came  of  a  stiff,  proud  stock, 
and  the  very  brusqueness  of  the  landlady  helped  her; 
and  she  read  word  after  word  and  line  after  line  of  the 
letter.  She  passed  from  the  bottom  of  the  second  sheet 
to  the  head  of  the  third,  and  so  to  the  end.  But  so 
slowly,  so  laboriously  that  it  was  plain  that  her  mind  was 
busy  reading  between  the  lines — was  busy  comparing, 
sifting,  remembering. 

To  Bishop's  credit  be  it  said,  he  kept  his  eyes  off  the 
girl.  But  at  last  he  spoke. 

"I'd   that   letter   from   his   wife's   hand,"   he   said. 

.48 


A  JEZEBEL  49 

"They  are  married  right  enough — in  Hounslow  Church, 
miss.  She  lives  there,  two  doors  from  the  'George'  post- 
ing-house, where  folks  change  horses  between  London 
and  Windsor.  She  was  a  waiting-maid  in  the  coffee- 
room,  and  'twas  a  rise  for  her.  But  she's  not  seen  him 
for  three  years — reason,  he's  been  in  hiding — nor  had  a 
penny  from  him.  Now  she's  got  it  he's  taken  up  with 
some  woman  hereabouts,  and  she  put  me  on  the  scent. 
He's  a  fine  gift  of  the  gab,  but  for  all  that  his  father's 
naught  but  a  little  apothecary,  and  as  smooth  a  rogue 
and  as  big  a  Kadical,  one  as  the  other !  I  wish  to  good- 
ness," the  runner  continued,  suddenly  reminded  of  his 
loss,  "I'd  took  him  last  night  when  he  came  in! 
But " 

"That'll  do!"  Mrs.  Gilson  said,  cutting  him  short,  as 
if  he  were  a  tap  she  had  turned  on  for  her  own  purposes. 
"You  can  go  now !" 

"But " 

"Did  you  hear  me,  man?  Go!"  the  landlady  thun- 
dered. And  a  glance  of  her  eye  was  sufficient  to  bring 
the  runner  to  heel  like  a  scolded  hound.  "Go,  and  shut 
the  door  after  you,"  she  continued,  with  sharpness.  "  I'll 
have  no  eavesdropping  in  my  house,  prerogative  or  no 
prerogative !" 

When  he  was  gone  she  showed  a  single  spark  of  mercy. 
She  went  to  the  fire  and  proceeded  to  mend  it  noisily, 
as  if  it  were  the  one  thing  in  the  world  to  be  attended  to. 
She  put  on  wood,  and  swept  the  hearth,  and  made  a  to- 
do  with  it.  True,  the  respite  was  short ;  a  minute  or  two 
at  most.  But  when  the  landlady  had  done,  and  turned 
her  attention  to  the  girl,  Henrietta  had  moved  to  the 
window,  so  that  only  her  back  was  visible.  Even  then, 
for  quite  a  long  minute  Mrs.  Gilson  stood,  with  arms 


50  A  JEZEBEL 

akimbo  and  pursed  lips,  reading  the  lines  of  the  girl's 
figure  and  considering  her,  as  if  even  her  rugged  bosom 
knew  pity.  And  in  the  end  it  was  Henrietta  who  spoke 
— humbly,  alas !  now,  and  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible. 

"Will  you  leave  me,  please?"  she  said. 

"I  will,"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered  gruffly.  "But  on  one 
understanding,  miss — and  I'll  have  it  plain.  It  must  be 
all  over.  If  you  are  satisfied  he  is  a  rascal — he  has  four 
children — well  and  good.  But  I'll  have  no  goings  on 
with  such  in  my  house,  and  no  making  two  bites  of  a 
cherry !  Here's  a  bit  of  paper  I'll  put  on  the  table." 

"I  am  satisfied,"  Henrietta  whispered. 

Under  the  woman's  blunt  words  she  shook  as  under 
blows. 

But  Mrs.  Gilson  seemed  to  pay  little  heed  to  her 
feelings. 

"Very  good,  very  good!"  she  answered.  "But  I'll 
leave  the  paper  all  the  same.  It's  but  a  bit  of  a  hand- 
bill that  fool  of  a  runner  brought  with  him,  but  'twill 
show  you  what  kind  of  a  poor  thing  your  Joe  was.  Just 
a  spouter,  that  got  drunk  on  his  own  words  and  shot  a 
poor  inoffensive  gentleman  in  a  shop !  Shame  on  him 
for  a  little  dirty  murder,  if  ever  there  was  one." 

"Oh,  please  go  !  please  go  !"  Henrietta  wailed. 

"Very  well.  But  there's  the  paper.  And  do  you 
begin  to  think" — removing  with  housewifely  hand  a 
half-eaten  dish  of  eggs  from  the  table,  and  deftly  pois- 
ing on  the  same  arm  a  large  ham — "do  you  begin  to 
think  like  a  grown,  sensible  woman  what  you'd  best 
do.  The  shortest  folly's  soonest  over!  That's  my 
opinion." 

And  with  that  she  opened  the  door,  and,  heavily  laden, 
made  her  wav  downstairs. 


A  JEZEBEL  51 

The  girl  turned  and  stood  looking  at  the  room,  and 
her  face  was  wofully  changed.  It  was  white  and  pinched, 
and  full  of  strained  wonder,  as  if  she  asked  herself  if 
she  were  indeed  herself,  and  if  it  could  really  be  to  her 
that  this  thing  had  happened.  She  looked  older  by 
years,  she  looked  almost  plain.  But  in  her  eyes  was  a 
latent  fierceness.  An  observer  might  have  guessed  that 
her  pride  suffered  more  sharply  than  her  heart.  Possi- 
bly she  had  never  loved  the  man  with  half  the  fervour 
with  which  she  now  hated  him. 

And  that  was  true,  though  the  change  was  sudden; 
ay,  and  though  Henrietta  did  not  know  it,  nor  would 
have  admitted  it.  She  suffered  notwithstanding,  and 
horribly.  For,  besides  pride,  there  were  other  things 
that  lay  wounded  and  bleeding :  her  happy-go-lucky  na- 
ture that  had  trusted  lightly,  and  would  be  slow  to  trust 
again;  her  girlish  hopes  and  dreams;  and  the  foolish 
fancy  that  had  passed  for  love,  and  in  a  single  day,  an 
hour,  a  minute,  might  have  become  love.  And  one  other 
thing — the  bloom  of  her  innocence.  For  though  she  had 
escaped,  she  had  come  too  near  the  fire  not  to  fear  it 
henceforth,  and  bear  with  her  the  smell  of  singeing. 

As  she  thought  of  that,  of  her  peril  and  her  narrow 
escape,  and  reflected  how  near  she  had  come  to  utter 
shipwreck,  her  face  lost  its  piteous  look,  and  grew  harder, 
and  sharper,  and  sterner;  so  that  the  wealth  of  bright 
hair,  that  was  her  glory,  crowned  it  only  too  brilliantly, 
only  too  youthfully.  She  saw  how  he  had  fooled  her  to 
the  top  of  her  bent ;  how  he  had  played  on  her  romantic 
tastes  and  her  silly  desire  for  secrecy.  A  low-born 
creature,  an  agitator,  hiding  from  the  consequences  of  a 
cowardly  crime,  he  had  happened  upon  her  in  his  twi- 
light walks,  desired  her — for  an  amusement,  turned  her 


52  A  JEZEBEL 

head  with  inflated  phrases,  dazzled  her  inexperience  with 
hints  of  the  world  and  his  greatness  in  it.  And  she — 
she  had  thought  herself  wiser  than  all  about  her,  as  she 
had  thought  him  preferable  to  the  legitimate  lover  as- 
signed to  her  by  her  family.  And  she  had  brought  her- 
self to  this !  This  was  the  end ! 

Or  no,  not  the  end.  'The  game,  for  what  it  was  worth, 
was  over.  But  the  candle-money  remained  to  be  paid. 
Goldsmith's  stanzas  had  still  their  vogue ;  mothers  quoted 
them  to  their  daughters.  Henrietta  knew  that  when 
lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly,  even  to  folly  of  a  lighter 
dye — when  she  learns,  though  not  too  late,  that  men 
betray,  there  is  a  penalty  to  be  paid.  The  world  is 
censorious,  was  censorious  then,  and  apt  to  draw  from 
very  small  evidence  a  very  dark  inference.  Henrietta's 
face,  flaming  suddenly  from  brow  to  neck,  proved  her 
vivid  remembrance  of  this.  Had  she  not  called  herself — 
the  words  burned  her — "his  wife  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven"?  And  now  she  must  go  back — if  they  would 
receive  her — go  back  and  face  those  whom  she  had  left  so 
lightly,  face  the  lover  whom  she  had  flouted  and  betrayed, 
meet  the  smirks  of  the  men  and  the  sneers  of  the  women, 
and  the  thoughts  of  both !  Go  back  to  blush  before  the 
servants,  and  hear  from  the  lips  of  that  grim  prude,  her 
sister-in-law,  many  things,  both  true  and  untrue ! 

The  loss  of  the  tender  future,  of  the  rosy  anticipations 
in  which  she  had  lived  for  weeks  as  in  a  fairy  palace — 
she  could  bear  this !  And  the  rough  awakening  from  the 
maiden  dream  which  she  had  taken  for  love — she  must 
bear  that  too,  though  it  left  her  world  cold  as  the  sheet 
of  grey  water  before  her,  and  repellent  as  the  bald,  rug- 
ged screes  that  frowned  above  it.  She  would  bear  the 
heartsickness,  the  loneliness,  the  pain  that  treachery 


A  JEZEBEL  53 

inflicts  on  innocence ;  but  the  shame  of  the  home-coming 
— if  they  would  receive  her,  which  she  doubted — the 
coarse  taunts  and  stinging  innuendoes,  the  nods,  the 
shrugs,  the  winks — these  she  could  not  face.  Anything, 
anything  were  better,  if  anything  she  could  find — de- 
serted, flung  aside,  homeless  as  she  was. 


Meanwhile  Mrs.  Gilson,  descending  with  a  sour  face, 
had  come  upon  a  couple  of  maids  listening  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  She  had  made  sharp  work  of  them,  send- 
ing them  packing  with  fleas  in  their  ears.  But  they 
proved  to  be  only  the  want-couriers  of  scandal.  Below 
were  the  Troutbeck  apothecary  and  a  dozen  gossips, 
whom  the  news  had  brought  over  the  hill ;  and  hangers- 
on  without  number.  All,  however,  had  no  better  fate  with 
Mrs.  Gilson ;  not  the  parish  constable  of  Bowness,  whose 
staff  went  for  little,  nor  even  Mr.  Bishop,  that  great  man 
out  of  doors,  at  whose  slightest  nod  ostlers  ran  and  help- 
ers bowed;  he  smiled  superior,  indeed,  but  he  had  the 
wisdom  to  withdraw.  In  two  minutes,  in  truth,  there  re- 
mained of  the  buzzing  crowd  only  the  old  curate  of 
Troutbeck  supping  small  beer  with  a.  toast  in  it.  And 
he,  it  was  said,  knew  better  than  any  the  .length  of  the 
landlady's  foot. 

But  this  was  merely  to  move  the  centre  of  ferment  to 
the  inn-yard.  Here-  the  news  that  the  house  had  shel- 
tered a  man  for  whose  capture  the  Government  offered 
six  hundred  guineas,  bred  wild  excitement.  He  had 
vanished,  it  was  true,  like  a  child  of  the  mist.  But  he 
might  be  found  again.  Meantime  the  rustics  gaped  on 
the  runner  with  saucer  eyes,  or  flew  hither  and  thither 
at  his  beck.  And  Radicals  being  at  a  discount  in  the 


54  A  JEZEBEL 

Lowther  country,  and  six  hundred  guineas  a  sum  for 
which  old  Hinkson  the  miser  would  have  bartered  his 
soul,  some  spat  on  their  hands  and  swore  what  they 
would  do  if  they  met  the  devil ;  while  others,  who  were 
not  apt  at  thinking,  retired  into  corners  and  with  knitted 
brows  and  hands  plunged  into  breeches  pockets  conjured 
up  a  map  of  the  world  about  Windermere. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  at  this  time  police 
were  unknown — outside  London.  There  were  parish 
constables ;  but  where  these  were  not  cobblers,  which  was 
strangely  often  the  case,  they  were  men  past  work,  ap- 
pointed to  save  the  rates.  If  a  man's  pocket  were  picked, 
therefore,  or  his  stack  fired,  his  daughter  abducted,  or  his 
mare  stolen,  he  had  only  himself  and  his  friends  to  look 
to.  He  must  follow  the  offender,  confront  him,  seize 
him,  carry  him  to  the  gaol.  He  must  do  all  himself. 
Naturally,  if  he  were  a  timid  man  or  unpopular,  the 
rogue  went  free;  and  sometimes  went  free  again  and 
again  until  he  became  the  terror  of  the  country-side.  A 
fact  which  enables  us  to  understand  the  terrors  of  lonely 
houses  in  those  days,  and  explains  the  repugnance  to 
life  in  solitary  places  which  is  traditional  in  some  parts 
of  England. 

On  the  other  hand,  where  the  crime  was  known  and 
outrageous,  it  became  every  man's  business.  It  was  every 
man's  duty  to  join  the  hue  and  cry:  if  he  did  not  take 
part  in  it  he  was  a  bad  neighbour.  Mr.  Bishop,  therefore, 
did  not  lack  helpers.  On  the  first  discovery  of  Walter- 
son's  flight,  which  the  officer  had  made  a  little  after  day- 
break, he  had  sent  horsemen  to  Whitehaven,  Keswick, 
and  Kendal,  and  a  boat  to  Newby  Bridge.  The  nearer 
shore  and  the  woods  on  the  point  below  the  bishop's 
house — some  called  it  Landoff  House — were  well  beaten, 


A  JEZEBEL  55 

and  the  alarm  was  given  in  Bowness  on  the  one  hand 
and  in  Ambleside  on  the  other.  The  general  voice  had  it 
that  the  man  had  got  away  early  in  the  night  to  White- 
haven.  But  some  stated  that  a  pedlar  had  met  him,  on 
foot  and  alone,  crossing  the  Kirkstone  Pass  at  daybreak ; 
and  others,  that  he  had  been  viewed  skulking  under  a 
haystack  near  Tfoutbeck  Bridge.  That  a  beautiful  girl, 
his  companion,  had  been  seized,  and  was  under  lock  and 
key  in  the  house,  was  whispered  by  some,  but  denied  by 
more.  Nevertheless,  the  report  won  its  way,  so  that  there 
were  few  moments  when  the  chatterers  who  buzzed  about 
the  runner  had  not  an  eye  on  the  upper  windows  and  a 
voice  ready  to  proclaim  their  discoveries. 

Even  those  who  believed  the  story,  however,  were  far 
from  having  a  true  picture  of  poor  Henrietta.  With 
some  she  passed  for  a  London  Jezebel ;  locked  up,  it  was 
whispered,  with  a  bottle  of  gin  to  keep  her  quiet  until 
the  chaise  was  ready  to  take  her  to  gaol.  Others  pictured 
her  as  the  frenzied  leader  of  one  of  the  women's  clubs 
which  had  lately  sprung  up  in  Lancashire,  and  of  which 
the  principal  aim,  according  to  the  Tories,  was  to  copy 
the  French  fish-fags  and  march  one  day  to  Windsor  to 
drag  the  old  king,  blind  and  mad  as  he  was,  to  the 
scaffold.  Others  spoke  of  a-  casual  light-o'-love  picked 
up  at  Lancaster,  but  a  rare  piece  of  goods  for  looks; 
which  seemed  a  pity,  and  one  of  those  tragedies  of  the 
law  that  were  beginning  to  prick  men's  consciences — 
since  there  was  little  doubt  that  the  baggage,  poor  lass, 
would  hang  with  her  tempter. 

A  word  or  two  of  these  whisperings  reached  Mrs. 
Gilson's  ears.  But  she  only  sniffed  her  contempt,  or, 
showing  herself  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  chilled  by 
the  coldness  of  her  eye  the  general  enthusiasm.  Then, 


56  A  JEZEBEL 

woe  betide  the  servant  whom  she  chanced  to  espy  among 
the  idlers.  If  a  man,  he  was  glad  to  hide  himself  in 
the  stable;  if  a  woman,  she  was  very  likely  to  go  back 
to  her  work  with  a  smarting  cheek.  Even  the  Trout- 
beck  apothecary,  a  roistering  blade  who  was  making  a 
day  of  it,  kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  door,  and,  if  he  could, 
slipped  round  the  corner  when  she  appeared. 

But  Juno  herself  had  her  moments  of 'failure,  and  no 
mortals  are  exempt  from  them.  About  four  in  the  after- 
noon Mrs.  Gilson  got  a  shock.  Modest  Ann,  her  face 
redder  than  usual,  came  to  her  and  whispered  in  her  ear. 
In  five  seconds  the  landlady's  face  was  also  redder  than 
usual,  and  her  frown  was  something  to  see.  She  rose. 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  she  answered.  ""You  are  daft, 
woman,  to  think  of  such  a  thing !" 

"It's  true,  missus,  as  I  stand  here!"  Ann  declared. 

"  To  Kendal  gaol  ?    To-night ! " 

"  That  very  thing !  And  her" — with  angry  fervour — 
"scarce  more  than  a  child,  as  you  may  say!" 

"Old  enough  to  make  a  fool  of  herself!""  Mrs.  Gilson 
retorted  spitefully.  "But  I  don't  believe  it!"  she  added. 
"You've  heard  amiss,  my  girl!" 

"Well,  you'll  see,"  the  woman  answered.  "  'Twill  be 
soon  settled.  The  justice  is  crossing  the  road  now,  and 
that  Bishop  with  him;  and 'that  little  wizened  chap  of  a 
clerk  that  makes  up  the  Salutation  books.  And  the  man 
that  keeps  the  gaol  at  Appleby :  they've  been  waiting  for 
him — he's  to  take  her.  And  there's  a  chaise  ordered  to 
be  ready  if  it's  wanted.  It's  true,  as  I  stand  here!" 

Mrs.  Gilson's  form  swelled  until  it  was  a  wonder  the 
whalebone  stood.  But  in  those  days  things  were  of  good 
British  make. 

"A  chaise?"  she  said. 


A  JEZEBEL  57 

"Yes." 

"There's  no  chaise,"  the  landlady  answered  firmly, 
"goes  from  here  on  that  errand  I" 

Modest  Ann  knew  that  when  her  mistress  spoke  in 
that  tone  the  thing  was  as  good  as  done.  But  the  wait- 
ing-maid, whose  heart,  for  all  her  temper,  was  softer 
than  her  features,  at  which  Jim  the  ostler  was  supposed 
to  boggle,  was  not  greatly  comforted. 

"They'll  only  send  to  the  Salutation,"  she  said  de- 
spondently. 

"Let  them  send!"  the  landlady  replied.  And  taking 
off  her  apron,  she  prepared  to  face  the  enemy.  "They'll 
talk  \o  me  before  they  do !" 

But  Ann,  great  as  was  her  belief  in  her  mistress, 
shook  her  head. 

"What  can  you  do  against  .the  law?"  she  muttered. 
"I  wish  that  Bishop  may  never  eat  another  morsel  of 
hot  victuals  as  long  as  he  lives !  Gravy  with  the  joint  ? 
Never  while  I  am  serving !" 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE   INQUIRY 

"WHO  is  there?" 

Henrietta  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  from  the  pillow 
and  awaited  the  answer.  Three  hours  earlier,  her  head 
aching,  her  heart  full,  uncertain  what  to  do  or  what 
would  follow,  she  had  fled  from  the  commotion  below, 
and,  locking  herself  in  her  bedroom,  had  lain  down  with 
her  misery.  It  was  something  to  find  in  the  apathy  of 
prostration  a  brief  respite ;  it  was  something  to  close  her 
eyes  and  lie  quite  still.  For  a  while  she  might  keep 
her  door  locked,  might  nurse  her  wretchedness,  might 
evade  rude  looks  and  curious  questions,  might  postpone 
decision. 

For  the  pride  that  had  sustained  her  in  the  morning 
had  failed,  as  the  day  wore  on.  Solitude  and  the  lack 
of  food — she  had  refused  to  eat  at  midday — had  worn 
down  her  spirit.  At  last  tears  had  come,  and  plentifully 
— and  repentance.  She  did  not  say  that  the  fault  was 
her  own,  but  she  knew  it,  she  admitted  it.  The  man 
had  behaved  to  her  wickedly,  treacherously,  horribly; 
but  she  had  brought  it  on  herself.  He  had  laid  the  snare 
in  vain  had  she  not  stooped  to  deceit — had  she  not  con- 
sented to  mislead  her  friends,  to  meet  him  secretly,  to 
listen  to  him  with  as  little  heed  of  propriety  as  if  she 
had  been  Sue  at  the  forge,  or  Bess  in  the  still-room.  Her 
pwn  vanity,  her  own  folly,  had  brought  her  to  the  very 

58 


THE  INQUIRY  59 

verge  of  ruin ;  and  with  shame  she  owned  that  there  was 
more  in  the  old  saws  with  which  her  sister-in-law  had 
deafened  her  than  her  inexperience  had  imagined.  But 
the  discovery  came  late.  She  was  smirched.  And  what 
— what  was  she  to  do  ?  Where  could  she  go  to  avoid  the 
full  penalty — the  taunts,  the  shame,  the  disgrace  that 
awaited  her  in  the  old  home  ? — even  if  the  old  home  were 
still  open  to  her. 

Meanwhile  she  got  no  answer.  And  "Who  is  there?" 
she  repeated  wearily. 

The  reply  came  muffled  through  the  door. 

"You  are  wanted  downstairs,  lady." 

She  rose  languidly.  Perhaps  the  time  was  come. 
Perhaps  her  brother  was  here,  had  followed,  traced,  and 
found  her.  For  the  moment  she  was  all  but  indifferent. 
To-morrow  she  would  suffer,  and  sorely ;  but  to-day  she 
had  fallen  too  low.  She  went  slowly  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

Ann  stood  in  the  passage. 

"They  want  you  downstairs,  miss,"1  she  said. 

The  girl  saw  that  the  woman  looked  queerly  at  her, 
but  she  was  prepared  for  such  looks.  Unconsciously 
she  had  steeled  herself  to  bear  them.  "Very  well," 
she  returned,  and  did  not  ask  who  wanted  her.  But 
she  went  back  to  her  table,  dabbed  her  eyes  with 
cold  water,  and  smoothed  her  hair  and  her  neck- 
ribbon — she  had  pride  enough  for  that.  Then  she 
went  to  the  door.  The  woman  was  still  outside,  still 
staring. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  waiting,"  Henrietta 
said,  faintly  surprised.  "I  know  my  way  down." 

"  I  was  to  come  with  you,  nrki " 

"Where  are  they,  then?" 


60  THE  INQUIRY 

"They  are  where  you  were  this  morning,"  the  woman 
answered.  "This  way,  if  you  please." 

Henrietta  followed  listlessly,  and  fancied  in  the  sul- 
lenness  of  her  apathy  that  she  was  proof  against  aught 
that  could  happen.  But  when  she  had  descended  the 
stairs  and  neared  the  door  of  Mr.  Eogers's  room — which 
was  in  a  dusky  passage — she  found  herself,  to  her  as- 
tonishment, brushing  past  a  row  of  people,  who  flattened 
themselves  against  the  wall  to  let  her  pass.  Their  eyes 
and  their  hard  breathing — perhaps  because  she  was 
amongst  them  before  she  saw  them — impressed  her  so 
disagreeably  that  her  heart  fluttered,  and  she  paused. 
For  an  imperceptible  instant  she  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  and  going  back.  But,  fortunately,  at  that  mo- 
ment the  door  opened  wide,  Ann  stood  aside,  and  Mrs. 
Gilson  showed  herself.  She  beckoned  to  the  girl  to 
enter. 

"Come  in,  miss,"  she  said  gruffly,  as  Henrietta  com- 
plied. "  Here's  some  gentlemen  want  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion or  two." 

Henrietta  saw  two  persons  with  their  faces  turned 
towards  her  seated  behind  a  table,  which  bore  ink  and 
paper  and  one  or  two  calf-bound  books.  Behind  these 
were  three  or  four  other  persons  standing;  and  beside 
the  door  close  to  her  were  as  many  more,  also  on  their 
feet.  But  nowhere  could  she  see  the  dreaded  face  of  her 
brother,  or,  indeed,  any  face  that  she  knew.  And  after 
advancing  firmly  enough  into  the  room,  she  stopped,  and, 
turning,  looked  uncertainly  at  Mrs.  Gilson. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  murmured.  "I 
have  come  into  the " 

"Wrong  room,  miss?" — the  speaker  was  Bishop,  who 
was  one  of  the  three  or  four  who  stood  behind  the  two 


THE  INQUIRY  61 

at  the  table.  "No,  there's  no  mistake,  miss,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  exaggerated  cheerfulness.  "It's  just  a 
formality.  Only  just  a  formality.  These  gentlemen 
wish  to  ask  you  one  or  two  questions." 

The  colour  rose  to  her  cheeks. 

"To  ask  me?"  she  repeated,  with  a  slight  ring  of 
hauteur  in  her  voice. 

"Just  so,"  Bishop  answered.  "It  will  be  all  right,  I 
am  sure.  But  attend  to  this  gentleman,  if  you  please, 
and  answer  his  questions." 

He  indicated  with  his  finger  the  one  seated  before  him. 

The  girl,  half  angry,  half  frightened,  lowered  her 
eyes  and  met  those  of  the  person  at  the  table.  Appar- 
ently her  aspect  had  checked  the  exordium  he  had  pre- 
pared ;  for  instead  of  addressing  her  in  the  tones  which 
were  wont  to  fill  the  justice-room  at  Ambleside,  Mr. 
Hornyold,  rector  and  magistrate,  sat  back  in  his  chair, 
and  stared  at  her  in  silence.  It  was  evident  that  his 
astonishment  was  great.  He  was  a  portly  man,  and  tall, 
about  forty  years  old,  and,  after  his  fashion,  handsome. 
He  had  well-formed  features  and  a  mobile  smile;  but 
his  face  was  masterful — overmasterful,  some  thought; 
and  his  eyes  were  hard,  when  a  sly  look  did  not  soften, 
without  much  improving,  their  expression.  The  girl 
before  him  was  young,  adorably  fresh,  above  all,  beauti- 
ful; and  the  smile  of  the  man  peeped  from  under  the 
mask  of  the  justice.  He  stared  at  her,  and  she  at 
him,  and  perhaps  of  the  two  he  was  the  more  taken 
aback.  At  any  rate,  it  was  Henrietta  who  broke  the 
silence. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  with  ill-suppressed 
indignation,  "why  I  am  here.  Are  you  sure  that  there 
is  no  mistake?" 


G2  THE  INQUIRY 

He  found  his  voice  then. 

"Quite  sure,"  he  said  drily.  And  he  laid  down  the 
pen  with  which  he  had  been  toying  while  he  stared  at 
her.  He  sat  a  little  more  erect  in  his  chair.  "There  is 
no  mistake,"  he  continued,  "though  for  your  sake, 
young  woman,  I  wish  I  could  think  there  was.  I  wish 
I  could  think  there  was,"  he  repeated  in  a  more  in- 
dulgent tone,  "since  you  seem,  at  any  rate,  a  more  re- 
spectable person  than  I  expected  to  see." 
"Sir!" 

The  girl's  eyes  opened  wide.    Her  face  was  scarlet. 
He  leaned  forward. 

"Come,  my  girl,"  he  said — and  his  familiar  tone 
struck  her,  as  it  were,  in  the  face, — never  had  such  a 
tone  been  used  to  her  before !  "Let  us  have  no  nonsense. 
You  will  not  improve  your  case  that  way.  Let  me  tell 
you,  we  are  accustomed  to  all  sorts  here.  You  must 
speak  when  you  are  told  to  speak,  and  be  silent  when 
you  are  bid,  and  in  the  meantime  listen  to  me !  Listen 
to  me,  I  say!"  staying  by  an  imperious  nod  the  angry 
remonstrance  that  was  on  her  lips.  "And  remember 
where  you  are,  if  you  wish  to  be  well  treated.  If  you  are 
sensible  and  tell  the  truth,  some  other  course  will  be 
found  than  that  which,  it  is  to  be  feared,  must  end  this 
business." 

"But  by  what  right,"  Henrietta  cried,  striving  to 
command  both  her  rage  and  her  fear — "by  what 
right— 

"Am  I  about  to  question  you?" — with  a  smirk  of 
humour  and  a  glance  at  the  audience.  "By  the  right  of 
the  law,  young  woman,  which  I  would  have  you  know  is 
of  some  account  here.,  however  it  may  stand  in  Lan- 
cashire." 


THE  INQUIRY  63 

"The  law?"  she  stammered.  And  she  looked  round 
terrified.  "Why?  Why?  What  have  I  done?"  she 
cried  pathetically. 

For  a  moment  all  was  dark  before  her. 

He  laughed  slyly. 

"That's  to  be  seen,"  he  said.  "No  hanging  matter," 
he  continued  humorously,  "I  hope.  And  as  it's  good 
law  that  everybody's  innocent — that's  so,  Mr.  Dobbie, 
is  it  not  ?" — he  addressed  the  clerk — "until  he's  found  to 
be  guilty,  let  somebody  set  the  young  woman  a  chair." 

"I  can  stand!"  she  cried. 

"Nay,  you  sit  down!"  muttered  a  gruff  voice  in  her 
ear.  And  a  hand — it  was  Mrs.  Gilson's — pressed  her 
down  in  the  chair.  "And  you  answer  straight  out,"  the 
woman  continued  coolly,  in  defiance  of  the  scandalised 
look  which  Mr.  Dobbie,  the  clerk,  cast  upon  her,  "and 
there's  not  one  of  'em  can  do  you  any  harm." 

The  magistrate  nodded. 

"That's  true,"  he  said  tolerantly,  "always  supposing 
that  you've  done  no  wrong,  my  girl — no  wrong  beyond 
getting  into  bad  company,  as  I  trust  will  turn  out  to  be 
the  case.  Now,  Mr.  Dobbie,  take  down  her  answers. 
What's  your  name,  my  girl,  first?" 

Henrietta  looked  at  him  steadily;  she  was  trying  to 
place  herself  in  these  new  conditions.  Something  like 
composure  was  coming  back  to  her  flushed  and  fright- 
ened face.  She  reflected;  and  having  reflected,  she  was 
silent. 

He  fancied  that  she  had  not  heard,  or  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"Your  name,  young  woman,"  he  repeated,  "and  your 
last  place  of  abode?  Speak  up !  And  don't  be  afraid." 

But  she  did  not  answer. 


G4  THE  INQUIRY 

He  frowned. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said.  "Did  you  hear  me?  Where 
is  your  home,  and  what  do  you  call  yourself  ?  You  are 
not  the  man's  wife,  I  know.  We  know  as  much  as  that, 
you  see,  so  you  may  as  well  be  frank." 

"What  is  the  charge  a'gainst  me?"  She  spoke  slowly, 
and  her  face  was  now  set  and  stubborn.  "  Of  what  am  I 
accused  ?" 

Mr.  Hornyold's  face  turned  a  brick  red.  He  did  not 
rule  three  parishes  through  three  curates,  reserving  to 
himself  only  the  disciplinary  powers  he  was  now  exer- 
cising, to  be  thwarted  by  a  run-the-country  girl;  who, 
in  spite  of  her  looks,  was,  ten  to  one,  no  better  than  the 
imprudent  wenches  the  o-verseers  were  continually  bring- 
ing before  him.  He  knew  at  least  the  company  she  kept. 
He  raised  his  voice. 

"I  am  not  here  to  answer  your  questions!"  he  said, 
bending  his  brows.  "But  you  mine!  You  mine!"  he 
repeated,  rapping  the  table  sharply.  "Do  you  hear? 
Now,  you  will  at  once  tell  me " 

He  broke  off.  The  clerk  had  touched  his  sleeve  and 
was  whispering  in  his  ear.  He  frowned  impatiently,  but 
listened.  And  after  a  moment  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.    "Tell  her!" 

The  clerk,  a  shabby  man  with  a  scratch  wig  and  a  little 
glass  ink-bottle  at  his  buttonhole,  raised  his  eyes,  and 
looking  at  her  over  his  glasses,  spoke : 

"You  are  not  yet  charged,"  he  said;  "but  if  you  can- 
not give  a  satisfactory  account  of  yourself  you  will  be 
charged  with  receiving,  harbouring,  and  assisting  one 
William  Walterson  the  younger,  otherwise  Stewart, 
otherwise  Malins,  against  whom  indictments  for  various 
felonies  and  treason  felonies  have  been  found.  And 


THE  INQUIRY  65 

with  aiding  and  abetting  the  escape  of  the  said  William 
Walterson,  in  whose  company  you  have  been  found.  And 
with  being  accessory  after  the  fact  to  various  fel- 
onies  " 

"To  murder!"  said  Mr.  Hornyold,  cutting  him  short 
emphatically.  "To  murder!  amongst  other  things.  That 
is  the  charge,  if  you  must  know  it.  So  now" — he  rapped 
the  table  sharply — "answer  at  once,  and  the  truth.  What 
is  your  name?  And  where  was  your  last  place  of 
abode?" 

But  Henrietta,  if  she  were  willing  to  answer,  could 
not.  At  the  sound  of  that  dreadful  word  "murder!" — 
they  hanged  lightly,  so  lightly  in  those  days ! — the  colour 
had  fled  from  her  face.  The  darkness  that  had  con- 
fused her  a  while  before  hid  all.  She  kept  her  seat,  she 
even  retained  her  erect  posture;  but  the  hands  which 
she  raised  before  hor  as  if  to  ward  off  something  groped 
idly  in  the  air. 

Murder !  No  wonder  that  she  lost  consciousness  for  a 
moment,  or  that  Hornyold,  secretly  relishing  her  beauty, 
thought  that  he  had  found  the  weapon  that  would  soon 
bring  her  to  her  knees !  or  that  the  little  audience  by  the 
door,  listening  awestruck,  held  their  breath.  The  won- 
der was  that  only  one  of  them  judged  from  the  girl's 
gesture  that  she  was  fainting.  Only  one  acted.  Mrs. 
Gilson  stepped  forward  and  shook  her  roughly  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Words  break  no  bones!"  the  landlady  said  without 
ceremony — and  not  without  an  angry  look  at  the  clerk, 
who  raised  his  pen  as  if  he  would  interpose.  "Don't 
you  make  a  fool  of  yourself.  But  do  you  tell  them  what 
they  want  to  know.  And  your  friends  will  settle  with 
them.  Murder,  indeed!  Pack  of  boddles!" 


66  THE  INQUIRY 

"Very  good  advice,"  said  the  magistrate,  smiling 
indulgently.  "But " 

"But  you  must  not  interfere!"  snapped  the  clerk — 
who  kept  the  books  of  the  Salutation  in  Ambleside  and 
not  of  the  Low  Wood  Inn. 

"Haven't  you  sense  to  see  the  girl  is  fainting?"  the 
landlady  replied  wrathfully. 

"Oh,  well " 

"I  am  better  now,"  Henrietta  said  bravely.  And  she 
drew  a  deep  breath.  A  little  colour — induced  perhaps 
by  Hornyold's  unsparing  gaze — was  coming  back  to  her 
cheeks.  "Would  you — can  I  have  a  glass  of  water?" 
she  murmured. 

Mrs.  Gilson  was  bustling  to  the  door  to  give  the  order 
when  it  opened,  and  Mr.  Bishop,  who  had  gone  to  it  a 
moment  before,  took  in  a  glass  of  wine,  and,  secretly 
pleased  that  he  had  anticipated  the  need,  handed  it  to 
her.  Mrs.  Gilson  took  it  with  a  grunt  of  distrust,  and 
made  the  girl  swallow  it;  while  the  magistrate  waited 
and  watched,  and  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  young 
woman  who  was  so  handsome,  pale  or  red,  fainting  or 
fierce.  And  so  fresh !  so  admirably,  astonishingly  fresh 
for  the  companion  of  such  a  man.  A  good  many  thoughts 
of  various  kinds  flitted  through  his  mind  as  he  watched 
her,  marking  now  the  luxuriance  of  her  fair  hair,  now 
the  white  chin,  small  but  firm,  and  now  the  faint,  faint 
freckles  that,  like  clots  in  cream,  only  added  to  the 
delicacy  of  her  complexion.  He  waited  without  impa- 
tience until  the  girl  had  drunk  the  wine,  and  when  he 
spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  approaching  the  paternal. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "you  are  going  to  be  a  good 
girl  and  sensible,  I  am  sure.  We  don't  want  to  send 
you  to  prison  to  herd  with  people  with  whom,  to  judge 


THE  INQUIRY  67 

from  your  appearance,  you  have  not  been  wont  to  mix. 
And  therefore  we  give  you  this  opportunity — there's 
no  need  we  should,  you  know — of  telling  us  who  you 
are,  and  whence  you  come,  and  what  you  know;  that  if 
it  appears  that  you  have  fallen  into  this  man's  company 
in  ignorance,  and  not  knowing  what  manner  of  man  he 
was,  we  may  prevent  this  charge  appearing,  and  instead 
of  committing  you  to  Appleby,  place  you  here  or  else- 
where under  bond  to  appear.  Which,  in  a  case  so  serious 
as  this,  is  not  a  course  we  could  adopt  were  you  not  so 
very  young,  and,"  with  a  humorous  look  at  the  group 
by  the  door,  "so  very  good-looking!  So  now  be  a  good 
girl  and  don't  be  afraid,  but  tell  me  at  once  who  you 
are,  and  where  you  joined  this  man." 

"If  I  do  not,"  Henrietta  said,  looking  at  him  with 
clear  eyes,  "must  I  go  to  prison?" 

"Appleby  gaol,"  said  the  clerk,  glancing  over  his 
glasses. 

"Then  you  must  send  me  there,"  she  replied,  a  little 
faintly.  "For  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"Don't  be  a  fool !"  growled  Mrs.  Gilson  in  her  ear. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  Henrietta  repeated  more 
firmly. 

Mr.  Hornyold  stared.  He  was  growing  angry,  for  he 
was  not  accustomed  to  be  set  at  naught.  After  their 
fashion  they  all  stared. 

"Come,  come,  my  dear,"  the  runner  remonstrated 
smoothly.  "If  you  don't  tell  us,  we  shall  think  there's 
more  behind." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"And  that  being  so,  it's  only  a  matter  of  time  to 
learn  what  it  is,"  the  runner  continued  cunningly.  "Tell 
us  now  and  save  time,  because  we  are  sure  to  get  to 


68  THE  INQUIRY 

know.    Young  women  as  pretty  as  you  are  not  hard  to 
trace." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  And  the  face  Bishop  called 
pretty  was  stubborn.  The  group  by  the  door,  marking 
for  future  gossip  every  particular  of  her  appearance,  the 
stuff  of  her  riding-habit,  the  fineness  of  her  linen,  the 
set  of  her  head,  made  certain  that  she  was  no  common 
trollope.  They  wondered  what  would  happen  to  her, 
and  hoped,  the  more  tender-hearted,  that  there  would  be 
no  scene,  and  no  hysterics  to  end  it. 

The  clerk  raised  his  pen  in  the  air.  "Understand," 
he  said,  "you  will  be  remanded  to  Appleby  gaol — it's  no 
very  comfortable  place,  I  caa  tell  you — and  later,  you 
will  be  brought  up  again  and  committed,  I've  very  little 
doubt,  to  take  your  trial  on  these  charges.  If  the  prin- 
cipal offender  be  taken,  as  he  is  likely  to  be  taken  before 
the  day  is  out,  you'll  be  tried  with  him.  But  it  is  not 
necessary.  Now  do  you  understand?"  he  continued, 
speaking  slowly.  "And  are  you  still  determined  to  give 
no  evidence — showing  how  you  came  to  be  with  this 
man  ?" 

Henrietta's  eyes  were  full  of  trouble.    She  shivered. 

"Where  shall  I  be  tried?"  she  muttered  in  an  un- 
steady voice. 

"Appleby,"  the  clerk  said  curtly.  "Or  in  His  Ma- 
jesty's Bench  at  Westminster !  Now  think,  before  it  is 
too  late." 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone,  "I  can- 
not help  it  now." 

The  magistrate  leant  forward.  What  a  fool  the  girl 
was !  If  she  went  to  Appleby  he  would  see  no  more  of 
her,  save  for  an  hour  or  two  when  she  was  brought  up 
again  before  being  committed,  Whereas,  if  she  spoke 


I    GIVE    YOU    A    LAST    CHANCE,"    HE   SAID 


THE  INQUIRY  69 

and  they  made  her  a  witness,  she  might  be  lodged  some- 
where in  the  neighbourhood  under  surveillance.  And 
she  was  so  handsome  and  so  young — the  little  fool!— 
he  would  not  be  sorry  to  see  more  of  her. 

"I  give  you  a  last  chance,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

The  magistrate  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Then  make  the  committal  out!"  he  said.  "There's 
enough  to  justify  it."  It  was  some  satisfaction  to  think 
that  locked  up  with  half  a  dozen  sluts  at  Appleby  she 
would  soon  be  sorry  for  herself.  "Make  it  out!"  he 
repeated. 

If  the  hysterics  did  not  come  now  he  was  very  much 
mistaken  if  they  did  not  come  later,  when  the  gaol  doors 
were  shut  on  her.  She  was  evidently  of  respectable  con- 
dition; a  curate's  daughter,  perhaps,  figged  out  by  the 
man  who  had  deceived  her,  or  a  lady's  lady,  spoiled  by. 
her  mistress,  and  taught  ideas  above  her  station.  On 
such,  the  gaol,  with  its  company  and  its  hardships,  fell 
severely.  It  would  soon,  he  fancied,  bring  her  to  her 
senses. 

The  clerk  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  after  casting 
a  last  glance  at  the  girl  to  see  if  she  would  still  yield, 
began  to  write.  She  watched  him  with  fascinated  eyes, 
watched  him  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  The  thought  throbbed 
loudly  and  more  loudly  in  her  head,  "What  will  become 
of  me?  What  will  become  of  me?"  Meanwhile  the 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  squeaking  of  the  pen 
and  a  single  angry  "Lord's  sakes !"  which  fell  from  the 
landlady.  The  others  awaited  the  end  with  whatever 
of  pity,  or  interest,  or  greedy  excitement  came  natural 
to  them.  They  were  within,  and  others  were  without; 
and  they  had  a  delicious  sense  of  privilege.  They  would 


70  THE  INQUIRY 

have  much  to  tell:  For  one  does  not  every  day  see  a 
pretty  girl,  young,  and  tenderly  nurtured,  as  this  girl 
seemed  to  be,  and  a  lady  to  the  eye,  committed  to  the 
common  gaol  on  a  charge  of  murder — murder,  and  trea- 
son felony,  was  it,  they  called  it  ?  Treason  felony !  That 
meant  hanging,  drawing,  and  quartering.  Lord's  sakes, 
indeed ;  poor  thing,  how  would  she  bear  it  ?  And  though 
it  is  likely  that  some  among  them — Mrs.  Gilson  for  one 
— didn't  think  it  would  come  to  this,  there  was  a  frown 
on  the  landlady's  brow  that  would  have  done  honour 
to  the  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon  himself. 


CHAPTER  "VU 

CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE 

MR.  BISHOP  of  Bow  Street  alone  watched  the  clerk's 
pen  with  a  look  of  doubt.  He  had  his  own  views  about 
the  girl.  But  he  did  not  interfere,  and  his  discontent 
with  the  posture  of  affairs  was  only  made  clear  when  a 
knock  came  at  the  door.  Then  he  was  at  the  door,  and 
had  raised  the  latch  before  those  who  were  nearest  could 
open. 

"Have  you  got  him?"  he  asked  eagerly.  And  he 
thrust  his  head  into  the  passage. 

Even  Henrietta  turned  to  catch  the  answer,  her  lips 
parting.  Her  breath  seemed  to  stop.  The  clerk  held  his 
pen.  The  magistrate  by  a  gesture  exacted  silence. 

"No,  but " 

"No?"  the  runner  cried  in  chagrin. 

"No!"  The  voice  sounded  something  peremptory. 
"Certainly  not.  But  I  want  to  see — ahem! — yes,  Mr. 
Hornyold.  At  once !" 

Henrietta,  at  the  first  word  of  the  answer,  had  turned 
again.  She  had  turned  so  far  that  she  now  had  her  back 
full  to  the  door,  and  her  face  to  the  farthest  corner. 
But  it  was  not  the  same  Henrietta,  nor  the  same  face. 
She  sat  rigid,  stiff,  turned  to  stone ;  she  was  scarlet  from 
hair  to  neck-ribbon.  Her  very  eyes  burned,  her  shoul- 
ders burned.  And  her  eyes  were  wild  with  insupportable 

71, 


72  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE 

shame.  To  be  found  thus!  To  be  found  thus,  and  by 
him !  Better,  far  better  the  gaol,  and  all  it  meant ! 

Meanwhile  the  magistrate,  after  a  brief  demur  and  a 
little  whispering  and  the  appearance  of  a  paper  with  a 
name  on  it,  rose.  He  went  out.  A  moment  later  his 
clerk  was  summoned,  and  he  went  out.  Bishop  had 
gone  out  first  of  all.  Those  who  were  left  and  who  had 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  stare  at  the  girl's  back, 
whispered  together,  or  bade  one  another  listen  and  hear 
what  was  afoot  outside.  Presently  these  were  joined  by 
one  or  two  of  the  boldest  in  the  passage,  who  muttered 
hurriedly  what  they  knew,  or  sought  information,  or 
stared  with  double  power  at  the  girl's  back.  But  Henri- 
etta sat  motionless,  with  the  same  hot  blush  on  her  cheeks 
and  the  same  misery  in  her  eyes. 

Presently  Mrs.  Gilson  was  summoned,  and  she  went 
out.  The  others,  freed  from  the  constraint  of  her  pres- 
ence, talked  a  little  louder  and  a  little  more  freely.  And 
wonder  grew.  The  two  village  constables,  who  remained 
and  who  felt  themselves  responsible,  looked  important, 
and  one  cried  "Silence"  a  time  or  two,  as  if  the  court 
were  sitting.  The  other  explained  the  law,  of  which 
he  knew  as  much  as  a  Swedish  turnip,  on  the  subject 
of  treason  felony.  But  mixing  it  up  with  the  Habeas 
Corpus  which  was  then  suspended,  he  was  tripped  up  by 
a  neighbour  before  he  could  reach  the  minutiae  of  the 
punishment.  Which  otherwise  must  have  had  much  in- 
terest for  the  prisoner. 

At  length  the  door  opened,  the  other  constable  cried, 
"Silence!  Silence  in  the  court  I"  And  there  entered — 
the  landlady. 

The  surprise  of  the  little  knot  of  people  at  the  back 
of  the  room  was  great  but  short-lived. 


CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE  73 

Mrs.  Gilson  turned  about  and  surveyed  them  with  her 
arms  akimbo  and  her  lower  lip  thrust  out.  "You  can 
all  just  go !"  she  said.  "And  the  sooner  the  better !  And 
if  ever  I  catch  you" — to  the  more  successful  of  the  con- 
stables, on  whose  feet  her  eye  had  that  moment  alighted 
— "up  my  stairs  with  those  dirty  clogs,  Peter  Harrison, 
I'll  clout  you !  Now,  off  you  go !  Do  you  think  I  keep 
carpets  for  loons  like  you?" 

"But — the  prisoner?"  gasped  Peter,  clutching  at  his 
fast-departing  glory.  "The  prisoner,  missus?" 

"The  goose !"  the  landlady  retorted  with  indescribable 
scorn.  "Go  you  down  and  see  what  the  other  ganders 
think  of  it.  And  leave  me  to  mind  my  business !  I'll 
see  to  the  prisoner."  And  she  saw  them  all  out  and 
closed  the  door.  • 

When  the  room  was  clear  she  tapped  Henrietta  on  the 
shoulder.  "There's  no  gaol  for  you,"  she  said  bluntly. 
"Though  it  is  not  yourself  you've  got  to  thank  for  it. 
They've  put  you  in  my  charge  and  you're  to  stay  here, 
and  I'm  to  answer  for  you.  So  you'll  just  say  straight 
out  if  you'll  stay,  or  if  you'll  run." 

Had  the  girl  burst  into  tears  the  landlady  had  found 
it  reasonable.  Instead,  "Where  is  he?"  Henrietta  whis- 
pered. She  did  not  even  turn  her  head. 

"Didn't  you  hear,"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted,  "that  he 
had  not  been  taken  ?** 

"I  mean — I  mean " 

"Ah!"  Mrs.  Gilson  exclaimed,  a  little  enlightened. 
"You  mean  the  gentleman  that  was  here,  and  spoke  for 
you?  Yes,  you  are  right,  it's  him  you've  to  thank. 
Well,  he's  gone  to  Whitehaven,  but  he'll  see  you  to- 
morrow." 

Henrietta  sighed. 


74  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE 

"In  the  meantime/'  Mrs.  Gilson  continued,  "you'll 
give  me  your  word  you'll  not  run.  Gilson  is  bound  for 
you  in  fifty  pounds  to  show  you  when  you're  wanted. 
And  as  fifty  pounds  is  fifty  pounds,  and  a  mint  of  money, 
I'd  as  soon  turn  the  key  on  you  as  not.  Girls  that  run 
once,  run  easy,"  the  landlady  added  severely. 

"I  will  not  run  away,"  Henrietta  said  meekly — more 
meekly  perhaps  than  she  had  ever  spoken  in  her  life. 
"And — and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  and  thankful  to 
you,"  in  a  very  small  voice.  "Will  you  please  to  let  me 
go  to  my  room,  and  you  can  lock  me  in  ?" 

She  had  risen  from  her  seat,  and  though  she  did  not 
turn  to  the  landlady,  she  stole,  shamed  and  askance,  a 
look  at  her.  Her  lip  trembled,  her  head  hung.  And 
Mrs.* Gilson,  on  her  side,  seemed  for  a  moment  on  the 
verge  of  some  unwonted  demonstration;  she  stood  awk- 
ward and  large,  and  perhaps  from  sheer  clumsiness 
avoided  even  while  she  appeared  to  invite  the  other's 
look.  But  nothing  happened  until  the  two  passed  out, 
Henrietta  first,  like  a  prisoner,  and  Mrs.  Gilson  stiffly 
following. 

Then  there  were  half  a  dozen  persons  waiting  to  stare 
in  the  passage,  and  the  way  Mrs.  Gilson's  tongue  fell 
loose  was  a  warning.  In  two  seconds,  only  one  held  her 
ground :  the  same  dark  girl  with  the  gipsy-like  features 
whose  mocking  smile  had  annoyed  Henrietta  as  she 
dressed  that  morning.  Ah,  me!  what  ages  ago  that 
morning  seemed ! 

To  judge  from  Mrs.  Gilson's  indignation,  this  girl 
was  the  last  who  should  have  stood. 

"Don't  you  black-look  me !"  the  landlady  cried.  "But 
pack !  D'you  hear,  impudence,  pack !  Or  not  one  dror 
of  milk  do  I  take  from  your  old  skinflint  of  a  father ' 


CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNB  75 

And  he'll  drub  you  finely,  if  he's  not  too  old  and  silly — 
till  you  smile  on  the  other  side  of  your  face !  I'd  like 
to  know  what's  taken  you  to-day  to  push  yourself  among 
your  betters!" 

"No  harm,"  the  girl  muttered.  She  had  retreated, 
scowling,  half-way  down  the  stairs. 

"And  no  good,  either!"  the  landlady  retorted.  "Get 
you  gone,  or  I'll  make  your  ears  ring  after  another 
fashion !" 

Henrietta  heard  no  more.  She  had  shrunk  from  the 
uproar  and  fled  quickly  to  her  room.  With  a  bursting 
heart  and  a  new  humility  she  drew  the  key  from  the 
wards  of  the  lock  and  set  it  on  the  outside,  hoping — 
though  the  hope  was  slender — to  avoid  further  words 
with  the  landlady.  The  hope  came  nearer  fulfilment, 
however,  than  she  expected ;  for  Mrs.  Gilson,  after  pant- 
ing upstairs,  only  cried  through  the  door  that  she  would 
send  her  up  supper,  and  then  went  down  again — per- 
haps with  a  view  to  catching  Bess  Hinkson  in  a  fresh 
trespass. 

Bess  was  gone,  however.  But  adventures  are  for  the 
brave,  and  not  ten  minutes  passed  before  the  landlady 
was  at  issue  with  a  fresh  adversary.  She  found  the 
coach-office  full,  so  full  that  it  overflowed  into  the  hall. 
Modest  Ann,  called  this  way  and  that,  had  need  of  four 
hands  to  meet  the  demands  made  upon  her;  so  furious 
were  the  calls  for  the  lemons  and  rum  and  Old  Geneva, 
the  grateful  perfume  of  which  greeted  Mrs.  Gilson  as 
she  descended.  Alas,  something  else  greeted  her:  and 
that  was  a  voice,  never  a  favourite  with  her,  but  now 
raised  in  accents  particularly  distasteful.  Tyson,  the 
Troutbeck  apothecary — a  flashy,  hard-faced  young  man 
in  pepper-and-salt,  and  Bedford  cords — had  seized  the 


76  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNB 

command  and  the  ear  of  the  company  in  the  coach-office, 
and  was  roasting  Long  Tom  Gilson  upon  his  own  hearth. 

"Not  know  who  she  is  ?"  he  was  saying  in  the  bullying 
tone  which  made  him  hated  of  the  pauper  class.  "You 
don't  ask  me  to  believe  that,  Tom  ?  Come !  Come !" 

"It's  what  I  say,"  Gilson  answered. 

He  sat  opposite  the  other,  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
his  face  red  and  sulky.  He  did  not  like  to  be  baited. 

"And  you  go  bail  for  her?"  Tyson  cried.  "You  have 
gone  bail  for  her?" 

"Well?" 

"And  don't  know  her  name?" 

"Well— no." 

The  doctor  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  glass  in  his  hand, 
and  looked  round  for  approbation. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  think  of 
that  for  a  dalesman  ?" 

"Well,  it  wasn't  long-headed,  Tom,"  said  one  unwill- 
ingly. "Not  to  call  long-headed,  so  to  speak,"  with 
north-country  caution.  "I'd  not  go  bail  myself,  not  for 
nobody  I'd  not  know." 

"No,"  several  agreed.    "No,  no!" 
•     "No,  but " 

"But  what,  Tom,  what?"  the  doctor  asked,  waiting  in 
his  positive  fashion  for  the  other  to  plunge  deeper  inio 
the  mire. 

"Captain  Clyne,  that  I  do  know,"  Gilson  continued, 
"it  was  he  said  'Do  it !'  And  he  said  something  to  the 
Rector,  I  don't  doubt,  for  he  was  agreeable." 

"But  he  did  not  go  bail  for  her?"  the  apothecary  sug- 
gested maliciously. 

"No,"  Tom  answered,  breathing  hard.  "But  for  rea- 
son she  was  not  there,  but  here.  Anyway,"  he  continued, 


CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE  77 

somewhat  anxious  to  shift  the  subject,  "he  said  it  and 
I  done  it,  and  I'd  do  it  again  for  Captain  Clyne.  I  tell 
you  he's  not  a  man  as  it's  easy  to  say  'No'  to,  Mr.  Tyson. 
As  these  Eadicals  i'  Lancashire  ha'  found  out,  'od  rot 
'em!  He's  that  active  among  'em,  he's  never  a  letter, 
I'm  told,  but  has  a  coffin  drawn  on  it,  and  yeomanry  in 
his  house  down  beyond  both  day  and  night,  I  hear!" 

"I  heard,"  said  one,  "in  Cartmel  market,  he  was  to 
be  married  next  week." 

"Ay,"  said  the  doctor  jocosely,  "but  not  to  the  young 
lady  as  Tom  is  bail  for!  I  tell  you,  Tom,  he's  been 
making  a  fool  of  you  just  to  keep  this  bit  of  evidence 
against  the  Radicals  in  his  hands." 

"Why  not  send  her  to  Appleby  gaol,  then?"  Tom  re- 
torted, with  a  fair  show  of  sense. 

"Because  he  knows  you'll  cosset  her  here,  and  he 
thinks  to  loose  her  tongue  that  way !  They  can  gaol  her 
after,  if  this  don't  answer." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"Ay,  while  you  run  the  risk!  If  it's  not  that,  what's 
he  doing  here  ?" 

"Why  should  he  not  be  here?""  Gilson  asked  slowly. 
"Hasn't  he  the- old  house  in  Furness,  not  two  miles  from 
Newby  Bridge!  And  his  mother  a  Furness  woman.  I 
do  hear  that  the  boy's  to  be  brought  there  for  safety 
till  the  shires  are  quieter.  And  maybe  it's  that  brings 
Captain  Anthony  here." 

"But  what  "has  that  to  do  with  the  young  woman 
you're  going  bail  for?"  the  doctor  retorted.  "Go  bail, 
Tom,  for  a  wench  you  don't  know,  and  that'll  jump  the 
moon  one  of  these  fine  nights !  I  tell  you,  man,  I  never 
heard  the  like!  Never!  Go  bail  for  a  girl  you  don't 
know !" 


78  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNB 

"And  I  tell  you,"  cried  a  voice  that  made  the  glasses 
ring,  "I  have  heard  the  like!  And  I'll  give  you  the 
man,  my  lad !"  And  Mrs.  Gilson,  putting  aside  the  two 
who  blocked  the  doorway,  confronted  the  offending  Ty- 
son with  a  look  comparable  only  to  that  of  Dr.  Keats 
of  Eaton  when  he  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  "I'll  give  you 
the  name,  my  lad !"  she  repeated. 

"Well,"  the  doctor  answered,  though  he  was  mani- 
festly taken  aback,  "you  must  confess,  Mrs.  Gilson " 

"Nay,  I'll  confess  nothing!"  the  landlady  retorted. 
"What  need,  when  you're  the  man?  Not  give  bail  for  a 
woman  you  don't  know?  Much  you  knew  of  Madge 
Peters  when  you  made  her  your  wife !  And  wasn't  that 
going  bail  for  her  ?  Ay,  and  bail  that  you'll  find  it  hard 
to  get  out  of,  my  man,  though  you  may  wish  to !  For 
the  matter  of  that,  it's  small  blame  to  her,  whatever 
comes  of  it!"  Mrs.  Gilson  continued,  setting  her  arms 
akimbo.  "If  all  I  hear  of  your  goings-on  is  true !  What 
do  you  think  she's  doing,  ill  and  sick  at  home,  while 
you're  hanging  about  old  Hinkson's  ?  Ay,  you  may  look 
black,  but  tell  me  what  Bess  Hinkson's  doing  about  my 
place  all  this  day  ?  I  never  saw  her  here  twice  in  a  day 
in  all  my  life  before,  and " 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  Tyson  cried  violently.  To  hear 
a  thing  which  he  thought  no  one  suspected  brought  up 
thus  before  a  roomful  of  men!  He  looked  black  as 
thunder  at  his  accuser. 

"I  mean  no  harm  of  your  wife,"  the  terrible  landlady 
answered ;  something — perhaps  this  roasting  of  her  hus- 
band on  his  own  hearth — had  roused  her  beyond  the 
ordinary.  "None,  my  gentleman,  and  I  know  none.  But 
if  you  want  no  harm  said  of  her,  show  yourself  a  bit 
less  at  Hinkson's.  And  a  bit  less  in  my  house.  And 


HE  NEITHER  CARED  NOR  SAW  WHO  IT  WAS  WHOM  HE  HAD  JOSTLED 


CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNE  79 

a  bit  more  in  your  own!  And  the  harm  will  be  less 
likely  to  happen !" 

"I'll  never  cross  your  doorstep  again !"  Tyson  roared. 

And  stumbling  to  his  feet  he  cast  off  one  or  two  who 
in  their  well  meaning  would  have  stayed  him.  He  made 
for  the  door.  But  he  was  not  to  escape  without  further 
collision.  On  the  threshold  he  ran  plump  against  a  per- 
son who  was  entering,  cursed  the  newcomer  heartily,  and 
without  a  look  pushed  violently  by  him  and  was  gone. 

He  neither  cared  nor  saw  who  it  was  whom  he  had  jos- 
tled. But  the  company  saw,  and  some  rose  to-  their  feet  in 
consternation,  while  others,  carried  their  hands  to  their 
heads.  There  was  an  involuntary  movement  of  respect 
which  the  new  comer  acknowledged  by  touching  his  hat. 
He  had  the  air  of  one  who  knew  how  to  behave  to  his 
inferiors ;  but  the  air,  also,  of  one  who  never  forgot  that 
they  were  his  inferiors. 

"Your  friend  seems  in  a  hurry,"  he  said.  His  face 
was  not  a  face  that  easily  betrayed  emotion,  but  he 
looked  tired. 

"Beg  your  honour's  pardon,  I  am  sure,"  Gilson  an- 
swered. "Something's  put  him  out,  and  he  did  not  see 
you,  sir." 

Mrs.  Gilson  muttered  that  a  pig  could  have  seen.  But 
her  words  were  lost  in  the  respectful  murmur  which 
made  the  company  sharers  in  the  landlord's  apology. 

Not  that  for  the  most  part  they  knew  the  strange  gen- 
tleman. But  there  is  a  habit  of  authority  which  once 
gained  becomes  a  part  of  the  man.  And  Anthony  Clyne 
had  this.  He  retained  wherever  he  went  some  shadow  of 
the  quarter-deck  manner.  He  had  served  under  Nelson, 
and  under  Exmouth;  but  he  had  resisted,  as  a  glance 
at  his  neat,  trim  figure  proved,  that  coarsening  influence 


80  CAPTAIN  ANTHONY  CLYNB 

which  spoiled  for  Pall  Mall  too  many  of  the  sea-dogs 
of  the  great  war.  Like  his  famous  leader,  he  had  left 
an  arm  in  the  cockpit;  and  the  empty  sleeve  which  he 
wore  pinned  to  the  lappel  of  his  coat  added,  if  possible, 
to  the  dignity  of  the  upright  carriage  and  the  lean, 
shaven  face.  The  death  of  his  elder  brother  had  given 
him  the  family  place,  a  seat  in  the  House,  a  chair  at 
White's,  and  an  income  handsome  for  his  day.  And  he 
looked  all  this  and  more;  so  that  such  a  company  as 
now  eyed  him  with  respect  judged  him  a  very  perfect 
gentleman,  if  a  little  distant. 

But  from  Clyne  Old  Hall,  where  he  lived,  he  could 
see  on  the  horizon  the  smoke  of  toiling  cities;  and  in 
those  cities  there  were  hundreds  who  hated  his  cold  proud 
face,  and  thousands  who  cursed  his  name.  Not  that  he 
was  a  bad  man  or  a  tyrant,  or  himself  ground  the  faces 
of  the  poor.  But  discipline  was  his  watchword,  and 
reform  his  bugbear.  To  palter  with  reform,  to  listen 
to  a  word  about  the  rights  of  the  masses,  was  to  his  mind 
to  parley  with  anarchy.  That  governors  and  governed 
cQuId  be  the  same  appeared  to  his  mind  as  absurd  as  that 
His  Majesty's  ships  could  be  commanded  from  the  fore- 
castle. All  for  the  people  and  nothing  by  the  people 
was  his  political  maxim,  and  one  amply  meeting,  as  he 
believed,  all  eventualities.  Lately  he  had  Jiad  it  carved 
on  a  mantel-piece,  and  the  prattle  of  his  only  child,  as 
the  club-footed  boy  spelled  it  out  syllable  by  syllable, 
was  music  to  his  ears. 

Whoever  wavered,  therefore,  whoever  gave  to  the  vio- 
lence of  those  times,  he  stood  firm.  And  he  made  others 
stand.  It  was  his  honest  belief  that  a  little  timely  se- 
verity— in  other  words,  a  whiff  of  grape-shot — would 
have  nipped  the  French  Revolution  in  the  bud;  and 


81 

while  he  owned  that  the  lower  orders  were  suffering  and 
times  were  bad,  that  bread  was  dear  and  work  wanting, 
he  was  for  quelling  the  least  disorder  with  the  utmost 
rigour  of  the  law. 

Such  was  the  man  who  accepted  with  a  curt  nod 
Tom  Gilson's  apology.  Then  "Have  you  a  room  ready?" 
he  asked. 

"The  fire  is  still  burning  in  Mr.  Eogers's  room,"  Mrs. 
Gilson  answered,  smoothing  at  once  her  apron  and  her 
brow.  "And  it'll  not  be  used  again  to-night.  But  I 
thought  that  you  had  gone  on,  sir,  to  Whitehaven." 

"I  shall  go  on  to-morrow,"  he  answered,  frowning 
slightly. 

"I'll  show  your  honour  the  way,"  Tom  Gilson  said. 

"Very  good,"  he  answered.  "And  dinner,  ma'am,  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"To  be  sure,  sir."  And  "This  way,  your  honour." 
And  taking  two  candles  Gilson  went  out  before  Captain 
Clyne,  and  with  greater  ceremony  than  would  be  used 
in  these  days,  lighted  him  along  the  passage  and  up  the 
stairs  to  Mr.  Eogers's  room  in  the  south  wing. 

The  fire  had  sunk  somewhat  low,  but  the  room  which 
had  witnessed  so  many  emotions  in  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  made  no  sign.  The  table  had  been  cleared.  The 
glass  fronts  of  the  cupboards  shone  dully;  only  a  chair 
or  two  stood  here  or  there  out  of  place.  That  was  all. 
But  had  Henrietta,  when  she  descended  to  breakfast  that 
morning,  foreseen  who  would  fill  her  chair  before  night, 
who  would  dine  at  her  table  and  brood  with  stern  un- 
seeing eyes  on  the  black-framed  prints,  for  whom  the 
pale-faced  clock  would  tick  off  depressing  seconds,  what 
— what  would  she  have  thought?  And  how  would  she 
have  faced  her  future? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

STARVECROW   FARM 

THE  company  at  Mrs.  Gilson's,  impressed  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  gentleman  of  Captain  Clyne's  position, 
scarce  gave  a  second  thought  to  the  doctor's  retreat. 
But  to  Tyson,  striding  homewards  through  the  mud  and 
darkness,  the  insult  he  had  suffered  and  the  feeble  part 
he  had  played  filled  the  world.  For  him  the  inn-parlour 
still  cackled  at  his  expense.  He  saw  himself  the  butt 
of  the  evening,  the  butt  of  many  evenings.  He  was  a 
vain,  ill-conditioned  man,  who  among  choice  spirits 
would  have  boasted  of  his  philandering.  But  not  the  less 
he  hated  to  be  brought  to  book  before  those  whom  he 
deemed  his  inferiors.  He  could  not  deny  that  the  land- 
lady had  trounced  him,  and  black  bile  whelmed  all  his 
better  feelings  as  he  climbed  the  steep  track  behind  the 

inn.  "D d  shrew!"  he  growled,  "D d  shrew!" 

and  breathing  hard,  as  much  in  rage  as  with  exertion, 
he  stood  an  instant  to  look  back  and  shake  his  fist  be- 
fore he  plunged  into  the  darkness  of  the  wooded  dell 
through  which  the  path  ascended. 

Two  or  three  faint  lights  marked  the  position  of  the 
inn  a  couple  of  fields  below  him.  Beyond  it  the  pale 
surface  of  the  lake  reflected  a  dim  radiance,  bestowed 
on  it  through  some  rift  in  the  clouds  invisible  from 

82 


STARVECROW  FARM  83 

where  he  stood.  A  far-away  dog  barked,  a  curlew 
screamed  on  the  hill  above  him,  the  steady  fall  of  a  pair 
of  oars  in  the  rowlocks  rose  from  the  lake.  The  im- 
mensity of  the  night  closed  all  in ;  and  on  the  thought- 
ful might  have  laid  a  burden  of  melancholy. 

But  Tyson  thought  of  his  wrongs,  not  of  the  night, 
and  with  a  curse  he  turned  and  plunged  into  the  wood, 
following  a  path  impossible  for  a  stranger.  As  it  was 
he  stumbled  over  roots,  the  saplings  whipped  him 
smartly,  a  low  bough  struck  off  his  hat,  and  when  he 
came  to  the  stream  which  whirled  through  the  bottom 
of  the  dingle  he  had  much  ado  to  find  the  plank  bridge. 
But  at  length  he  emerged  from  the  wood,  gained  the 
road,  and  mounted  the  steep  shoulder  that  divided  the 
Low  Wood  hamlet  from  the  vale  of  Troutbeck. 

Where  his  road  topped  the  ridge  the  gaunt  outline 
of  a  tall,  narrow  building  rose  in  the  gloom.  It  re- 
sembled a  sentry-box  commanding  either  valley.  It 
was  set  back  some  twenty  paces  from  the  road  with  half 
a  dozen  ragged  fir  trees  intervening;  and  on  its  lower 
side — but  the  night  hid  them — some  mean  farm-build- 
ings clung  to  the  steep.  With  the  wind  soughing  among 
the  firs  and  rustling  through  the  scanty  grass,  the  place 
on  that  bleak  shoulder  seemed  lonely  even  at  night.  But 
in  the  day  its  ugliness  and  barrenness  were  a  proverb. 
They  called  it  "Starvecrow  Farm." 

Nevertheless,  Tyson  paused  at  the  gate,  and  with  an 
irresolute  oath  looked  over  it. 

"Cursed  shrew !"  he  said,  for  the  third  time.  "What 
business  is  it  of  hers  if  I  choose  to  amuse  myself?" 

And  with  his  heart  hardened,  he  flung  the  gate  wide, 
and  entered.  He  had  not  gone  two  paces  before  he  leapt 
back,  startled  by  the  fierce  snarl  of  a  dog,  that,  unseen, 


84  STARVECROW  FARM 

flung  itself  to  the  end  of  its  chain.  Disappointed  in  its 
spring,  it  began  to  bay. 

The  doctor's  fright  was  only  momentary. 

"What,  Turk  !"  he  cried.  "What  are  you  doing  here? 
What  the  blazes  are  you  doing  here?  Down,  you  brute, 
down !" 

The  dog  knew  his  voice,  ceased  to  bark,  and  began  to 
whimper.  Tyson  entered,  and  assured  that  the  watch- 
dog knew  him,  kicked  it  brutally  from  his  path.  Then 
he  groped  his  way  between  the  trees,  stumbled  'down 
three  broken  steps  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  pass- 
ing round  the  building  reached  the  door  which  was  on 
the  further  side  from  the  road.  He  tried  it,  but  it  was 
fastened.  He  knocked  on  it. 

A  slip-shod  foot  dragged  across  a  stone  floor.  A  high 
cracked  voice  asked,  "Who's  there?" 

"I !  Tyson !"  the  doctor  answered  impatiently.  "Who 
should  it  be  at  this  hour?" 

"Is't  you,  doctor?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Who's  wi'  ye?" 

"No  one,  you  old  fool !    Who  should  there  be?" 

A  key  creaked  in  the  lock,  and  the  great  bar  was  with- 
drawn; but  slowly,  as  it  seemed  to  the  apothecary,  and 
reluctantly.  He  entered  and  the  door  was  barred  behind 
him. 

"Where's  Bess?"  he  asked. 

The  bent  creeping  figure  that  had  admitted  him  re- 
plied that  she  was  "somewheres  about,  somewheres 
about."  After  which,  strangely  clad  in  a  kind  of  bed- 
gown and  nightcap,  it  trailed  back  to  the  settle  beside  the 
turf  and  wood  fire,  which  furnished  both  light  and 
warmth.  The  fire,  indeed,  was  the  one  generous  thing 


STARVECROW  FARM  85 

the  room  contained.  All  else  was  sordid  and  pinched 
and  mean.  The  once-whitened  walls  were  stained,  the 
rafters  were  smoked  in  a  dozen  places,  the  long  dresser 
— for  the  room  was  large,  though  low — was  cracked  and 
ill-furnished,  a  brick  supported  one  leg  of  the  table. 
Even  in  the  deep  hearth-place,  where  was  such  comfort 
as  the  place  could  boast,  a  couple  of  logs  served  for  stools 
and  a  frowsy  blanket  gave  a  squalid  look  to  the  settle. 

Tyson  stood  on  the  hearth  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
and  eyed  the  room  with  a  soowl  of  disgust.  The  old 
man,  bent  double  over  a  stick  which  he  was  notching, 
breathed  loudly  and  laboriously. 

"What  folly  is  this  about  the  dog?"  Tyson  asked  con- 
temptuously. 

The  old  man  looked  up,  cunning  in  his  eyes. 

"Ask  her,"  he  said. 

"Eh?" 

The  miser  bending  over  his  task  seemed  to  be  taken 
with  a  fit  of  silent  laughter. 

"It's  the  still  sow  sups  the  brose,"  he  said.  "And 
I'm  still!  I'm  still." 

"What  are  you  doing?"  Tyson  growled. 

"Nothing  much!  Nothing  much!  You've  not," 
looking  up  with  greed  in  his  eyes,  "an  old  letter-back 
to  spare?" 

Tyson  seldom  came  to  the  house  unfurnished  with 
one.  He  had  long  known  that  Hinkson  belonged  to  the 
class  of  misers  who,  if  they  can  get  a  thing  for  nothing, 
are  as  well  pleased  with  a  scrap  of  paper,  a  length  of 
string,  or  a  mouldy  crust,  as  with  a  crown-piece.  The 
poor  land  about  the  house,  which  with  difficulty  sup- 
ported three  or  four  cows,  on  the  produce  of  which  the 
Hinksons  lived,  might  have  been  made  profitable  at 


86  STARVECROW  FARM 

the  cost  of  some  labour  and  a  little  money.  But  labour 
and  money  were  withheld.  And  Tyson  often  doubted  if 
the  miser's  store  were  as  large  as  rumour  had  it,  or  even 
if  there  were  a  store  at  all. 

"Not  that/'  he  would  add,  "large  or  small,  some  one 
won't  cut  his  throat  for  it  one  day !" 

He  produced  the  old  letter,  and  after  showing  it,  held 
it  behind  him. 

"What  of  the  dog  now?"  he  said. 

"Na,  na,  I'll  not  speak  |or  that !" 

"Then  you  won't  have  it!" 

But  the  old  fellow  only  cackled  superior. 

"What's — what's — a  pound-note  a  week?  Is't  four 
pound  a  month?" 

"Ay!"  the  doctor  answered.  "It  is.  That's  money, 
my  lad!" 

"Ay!" 

The  old  man  hugged  himself,  and  rocked  to  and  fro 
in  an  ecstasy. 

"  That's  money !  And  four  pound  a  month,"  he  con- 
sulted the  stick  he  was  notching,  "is  forty-eight  pound 
a  year?" 

"And  four  to  it,"  Tyson  answered.  "Who's  paying 
you  that?" 

"Na,  na!" 

"And  what's  it  to  do  with  the  dog?" 

Hinkson  looked  knavish  but  frightened. 

"Hist!"  he  said.  "Here's  Bess.  I'd  use  to  wallop 
her,  but  now " 

"She  wallops  you,"  the  visitor  muttered.  "That's 
the  ticket,  I  expect" 

The  girl  entered  by  the  mean  staircase  door  and  nod- 
ded to  him  coolly. 


STARVECROW  FARM  87 

"I  supposed  it  was  you,"  she  said  slightingly. 

And  for  the  hundredth  or  two-hundredth  time  he  felt 
with  rage  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  stronger  na- 
ture than  his  own.  He  could  treat  the  old  man,  whose 
greed  had  survived  his  other  passions,  and  almost  his 
faculties,  pretty  much  as  he  pleased.  But  though  he 
had  sauntered  through  the  gate  a  score  of  times  with 
the  intention  of  treating  Bess  as  he  had  treated  more 
than  one  village  girl  who  pleased  him,  he  had  never  re- 
crossed  the  threshold  without  a  sense  not  only  of  defeat, 
but  of  inferiority.  He  came  to  strut,  he  remained  to 
kneel. 

He  fought  against  that  feeling  now,  calling  his  temper 
to  his  aid. 

"What  folly  is  this  ahout  the  dog?"  he  asked. 

"Father  thinks,"  she  replied  demurely,  "that  if  thieves 
come  it  can  be  heard  better  at  the  gate." 

"Heard?  I  should  think  it  could  be  heard  in 
Bowness !" 

"Just  so." 

"But  your  father " 

"Father!"  sharply,  "go  to  bed!"  And  then  to  the 
visitor,  "Give  him  a  ha'penny,"  she  muttered.  "He 
won't  go  without !" 

"But  I  don't  care " 

"I  don't  care  either — which  of  you  goes!"  she  re- 
torted. "But  one  of  you  goes." 

Sullenly  he  produced  a  copper  and  put  it  in  the  old 
man's  quivering  hand — not  for  the  first  time  by  sev- 
eral. Hinkson  gripped  it,  and  closing  his  hand  upon  it 
as  if  he  feared  it  would  be  taken  from  him,  he  hobbled 
away,  and  disappeared  behind  the  dingy  hangings  of 
the  box-bed. 


gg  STARVBCROW  FARM 

"And  now  what's  the  mystery?"  Tyson  asked,  seating 
himself  on  one  of  the  stools. 

"There  is  none,"  she  answered,  standing  hefore  him 
where  the  firelight  fell  on  her  dark  face  and  gipsy 
beauty.  "Call  it  a  whim  if  you  like.  Perhaps  I  don't 
want  my  lads  to  come  in  till  I've  raddled  my  cheeks ! 
Or  perhaps" — flippantly — "Oh,  any  'perhaps'  you  like!" 

"I  know  no  lad  you  have  but  me,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know  one,"  she  answered,  seating  herself 
on  the  settle,  and  bending  forward  with  her  elbows  on 
her  knees  and  her  face  between  her  hands.  It  was  a 
common  pose  with  her.  "When  I've  a  lad  I  want  a 
man!"  she  continued — "a  man!" 

"Don't  you  call  me  a  man?"  he  answered,  his  eyes 
taking  their  fill  of  her  face. 

"Of  a  sort."  she  rejoined  disdainfully.  "Of  a  sort. 
Good  enough  for  here.  But  I  shan't  live  all  my  life 
here!  D'you  ever  think  what  a  God-forsaken  corner 
this  is,  Tyson?  Why,  man,  we  are  like  mice  in  a  dark 
cupboard,  and  know  as  much  of  the  world !" 

"What's  the  world  to  us?"  he  asked.  Her  words  and 
her  ways  were  often  a  little  beyond  him. 

"That's  it!"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  contemptuous 
raillery.  "What's  the  world  to  us?  We  are  here  and 
not  there.  We  must  curtsey  to  parson  and  bob  to  curate, 
and  mind  our  manners  with  the  overseers !  We  must  be 
proud  if  Madam  inquires  after  our  conduct,  but  we 
must  not  fancy  that  we  are  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as 
she  is !  Ah,  when  I  meet  her,"  with  sudden  passion, 
"and  she  looks  at  me  to  see  if  I  am  clean,  I — do  you 
know  what  I  think  of  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  dream  of  ? 
Do  you  know  what  I  hope" — she  snapped  her  strong 
white  teeth  together — "ay,  hope  to  see?" 


STARVECROW  FARM  89 

"What?" 

"What  they  saw  twenty  years  ago  in  France — her 
white  neck  under  the  knife !  That  was  what  happened  to 
her  and  her  like  there,  I  am  told,  and  I  wish  it  could 
happen  here !  And  I'd  knit,  as  girls  knitted  there, 
and  counted  the  heads  that  fell  into  the  baskets !  When 
that  time  conies  Madam  won't  look  to  see  if  I  am 
clean !" 

He  looked  at  her  uncomfortably.  He  did  not  under- 
stand her. 

"How  the  devil  do  you  come  to  know  these  things?" 
he  exclaimed.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  opened 
to  him  in  this  strain — not  the  first  by  several.  And  tho 
sharp  edge  was  gone  from  his  astonishment.  But  she 
was  not  the  less  a  riddle  to  him  and  a  perplexity — a 
Sphinx,  at  once  alluring  and  terrifying.  "Who  told 
you  of  them?  What  makes  you  think  of  them?"  he 
repeated. 

"Do  you  never  think  of  them?"  she  retorted,  leaning 
forward  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  his.  "Do  you  never 
wonder  why  all  the  good  things  are  for  a  few,  and  for 
the  rest — a  crust?  Why  the  rector  dines  at  the  squire's 
table  and  you  dine  in  the  steward's  room?  Why  the 
parson  gives  you  a  finger  and  thinks  he  stoops,  and  his 
ladies  treat  you  as  if  you  were  dirt — only  the  apothecary  ? 
Why  you  are  in  one  class  and  they  in  another  till  the 
end  of  time?" 

"D n  them!"  he  muttered,  his  face  a  dull  red. 

She  knew  how  to  touch  him  on  the  raw. 

"Do  you  never  think  of  those  things?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  her  up  sullenly,  "if  I  do?" 

She  rocked  herself  back  on  the  settle  and  looked  across 
at  him  out  of  half-closed  eyes. 


90  STARVECROW  FARM 

"Then — if  you  do  think,"  she  answered  slowly,  "it 
is  to  be  seen  if  you  are  a  man." 

"A  man?" 

"Ay,  a  man!  A  man!  For  if  you  think  of  these 
things,  if  you  stand  face  to  face  with  them,  and  do 
nothing,  you  are  no  man !  And  no  lad  for  me !"  lightly. 
"You  are  well  matched  as  it  is  then.  Just  a  match 
and  no  more  for  your  white-faced,  helpless  dumpling 
of  a  wife!" 

"It  is  all  very  well,"  he  muttered,  "to  talk!" 

"  Ay,  but  presently  we  shall  do  as  well  as  talk !  Out 
in  the  world  they  are  doing  now !  They  are  beginning 
to  do.  But  here — what  do  you  know  in  this  cupboard? 
No  more  than  the  mice." 

"Fine  talk!"  he  retorted,  stung  by  her  contempt. 
"But  you  talk  without  knowing.  There  have  been 
parsons  and  squires  from  the  beginning,  and  there  will 
be  parsons  and  squires  to  the  end.  You  may  talk  until 
you  are  black  in  the  face,  Bess,  but  you  won't  alter 
that !" 

"Ay,  talk !"  she  retorted  drily.  "You  may  talk.  But 
if  you  do — as  they  did  in  France  twenty  years  gone. 
Where  are  their  squires  and  parsons  now?  The  end 
came  quick  enough  there,  when  it  came." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  that,"  he  growled. 

"Ay,  but  I  do." 

"But  how  the  devil  do  you?"  he  answered,  in  some 
irritation,  but  more  wonder.  "How  do  you?"  And  he 
looked  round  the  bare,  sordid  kitchen.  The  fire,  shoot- 
ing warm  tongues  up  the  black  cavernous  chimney, 
made  the  one  spot  of  comfort  that  was  visible. 

"Never  you  mind!"  she  answered,  with  a  mysterious 
and  tantalising  smile.  "I  do.  And  by-and-by,  if  we've 


STARVECROW  FARM  91 

the  spirit  of  a  mouse,  things  will  happen  here !  Down 
yonder — I  see  it  all — there  are  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  starving.  And  stacks  burning.  And  mobs 
marching,  and  men  drilling,  and  more  things  happening 
than  you  dream  of !  And  all  that  means  that  by-and-by 
I  shall  be  knitting  while  Madam  and  Miss  and  that 
proud-faced,  slim-necked  chit  at  the  inn,  who  faced  us  all 
down  to-day " 

"Why,"  he  struck  in,  in  fresh  surprise,  "what  has 
she  done  to  you  now?" 

"That's  my  business,  never  you  mind !  Only,  by-and- 
by,  they  will  all  smile  on  the  wrong  side  of  their  face!" 

He  stared  morosely  into  the  fire.  And  she  watched 
him,  her  long  lashes  veiling  a  sly  and  impish  amuse- 
ment. If  he  dreamed  that  she  loved  him,  if  he  fancied 
her  a  victim  of  his  bow  and  spear,  he  strangely,  most 
strangely,  misread  her.  And  a  sudden  turn,  a  single 
quick  glance  should  have  informed  him.  For  as  the 
flames  by  turns  lit  her  face  and  left  it  to  darkness,  they 
wrought  it  to  many  expressions;  but  never  to  kindness. 

"There's  many  I'd  like  to  see  brought  down  a  piece," 
he  muttered  at  last.  "Many,  many.  And  I'm  as  fond 
of  my  share  of  good  things  as  most.  But  it's  all  talk, 
there's  nought  to  be  done!  Nor  ever  will  be!  There 
have  been  parsons  and  squires  from  the  beginning." 

"Would  you  do  it,"  she  asked  softly,  "if  there  were 
anything  to  be  done?" 

"Try  me." 

"I  doubt  it.    And  that's  why  you  are  no  lad  for  me." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  in  a  temper  at  that.  He  turned 
his  back  on  the  fire. 

"What's  the  use  of  getting  on  this  every  time!"  he 
cried.  And  he  took  up  his  hat.  "I'm  weary  of  it.  I'm 


92  STARVECROW  FARM 

off.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall  come  back  again.  What's 
the  use  ?"  with  a  side-long  glance  at  her  dark,  handsome 
face  and  curving  figure  which  the  firelight  threw  into 
prominence. 

"If  there  were  anything  to  do,"  she  asked,  as  if  he 
had  never  spoken,  never  answered  the  question,  "would 
you  do  it?"  And  she  smiled  at  him,  her  head  thrown 
back,  her  red  lips  parted,  her  eyes  tempting. 

"You  know  I  would  if "    He  paused. 

"There  were  some  one  to  be  won  by  it?" 

He  nodded,  his  eyes  kindling. 

"Well " 

No  more.  For  as  she  spoke  the  word,  and  he  bent 
forward,  something  heavy  fell  on  the  floor  overhead; 
and  she  sat  up  straight.  Her  eyes,  grown  suddenly  hard 
and  small — perhaps  with  fright — held  Tyson's  eyes. 

"What's  that?"  he  cried,  frowning  suspiciously. 
"There's  nobody  upstairs?" 

"Father's  in  bed,"  she  said.  She  held  up  a  finger 
for  silence. 

"And  there's  nobody  else  in  the  house?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Who  should  there  be?"  she  said.  "It's  the  cat,  I 
suppose." 

"You'd  better  let  me  see,"  he  rejoined.  And  he  took 
a  step  towards  the  staircase  door. 

"No  need,"  she  answered  listlessly,  after  listening 
anew.  "I'm  not  afraid.  The  cat  is  not  here;  it  must 
have  been  the  cat.  I'll  go  up  when  you  are  gone,  and 
see." 

"It's  not  safe,"  he  grumbled,  still  inclined  to  go. 
"You  two  alone  here,  and  the  old  man  said  to  be  as 
rich  as  a  lord !" 


STARVECROW  FARM  93 

"Ay,  said  to  be,"  she  answered,  smiling  "As  you 
said  you  were  going  ten  minutes  ago,  and  you  are  not 

gone  yet.  But "  she  rose  with  a  yawn,  partly  real 

and  partly  forced,  "you  must  go  now,  my  lad." 

"But  why?"  he  answered.  "When  we  were  just  be- 
ginning to  understand  one  another." 

"Why?"  she  answered  pertly.  "Because  father  wants 
to  sleep.  Because  your  wife  will  scratch  my  eyes  out 
if  you  don't.  Because  I  am  not  going  to  say  another 
word  to-night — whatever  I  may  say  to-morrow.  And 
because — it's  my  will,  my  lad.  That's  all." 

He  muttered  his  discontent,  swinging  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  making  eyes  at  her.  But  she  kept  him  at 
arm's  length,  and  after  a  moment's  argument  she  drove 
him  to  the  door. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  when  he  stood  outside,  "you 
had  better  let  me  look  upstairs." 

But  she  laughed. 

"I  dare  say  you'd  like  it!"  she  said;  and  she  shut 
the  door  in  his  face  and  he  heard  the  great  bar  that 
secured  it  shot  into  its  socket  in  the  thickness  of  the 
wall.  In  a  temper  not  much  better  than  that  in  which 
he  had  left  the  inn,  he  groped  his  way  round  the  house, 
and  up  the  three  steps  at  the  corner  of  the  building. 
He  swore  at  the  dog  that  it  might  know  who  came, 
and  so  he  passed  into  the  road.  Once  he  looked  back 
at  the  house,  but  all  was  dark.  The  windows  looked  the 
other  way. 


CHAPTER  IX 

PUNISHMENT 

ANTHONY  CLYNE  came  to  a  stand  before  her,  and 
lifted  his  hat. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  without  letting  his  eyes 
meet  hers — he  was  stiffness  itself,  but  perhaps  he  too 
had  his  emotions — "that  you  preferred  to  see  me  here 
rather  than  indoors?" 

"Yes,"  Henrietta  answered.  And  the  girl  thanked 
heaven  that  though  the  beating  of  her  heart  had  nearly 
choked  her  a  moment  before,  her  tone  was  as  hard  and 
uncompromising  as  his.  He  could  not  guess,  he  never 
should  guess,  what  strain  she  put  on  nerve  and  will  that 
she  might  not  quail  before  him;  nor  how  often,  with 
her  quivering  face  hidden  in  the  pillow,  she  had  told 
herself,  before  rising,  that  it  was  for  once  only,  once 
only,  and  that  then  she  need  never  see  again  the  man  she 
had  wronged. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  continued  slowly,  "whether  you 
have  anything  to  say?" 

"Nothing,"  she  answered.  They  were  standing  on 
the  Ambleside  road,  a  short  furlong  from  the  inn.  Leaf- 
less trees  climbed  the  hill-side  above  them ;  and  a  rough 
slope,  unfenced  and  strewn  with  boulders  and  dying 
bracken,  ran  down  from  their  feet  to  the  lake. 

"Then,"  he  rejoined,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible  hard- 

94 


PUNISHMENT  95 

ening  of  the  mouth,  "  I  had  best  say  as  briefly  as  possible 
what  I  am  come  to  say." 

"If  you  please,"  she  said.  Hitherto  she  had  faced  him 
regally.  Now  she  averted  her  eyes  ever  so  slightly,  and 
placed  herself  so  that  she  looked  across  the  water  that 
gleamed  pale  under  the  morning  mist. 

Yet,  even  with  her  eyes  turned  from  him,  he  did 
not  find  it  easy  to  say  what  he  must  say.  And  for  a 
few  seconds  he  was  silent.  At  last  "I  do  not  wish  to 
upbraid  you,"  he  began  in  a  voice  somewhat  lower  in 
tone.  "You  have  done  a  very  foolish  and  a  very  wicked, 
wicked  thing,  and  one  which  cannot  be  undone  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world.  That  is  for  all  to  see.  You  have  left 
your  home  and  your  friends  and  your  family  under 
circumstances " 

She  turned  her  full  face  to  him  suddenly. 

"Have  they,"  she  said,  "empowered  you  to  speak  to 
me?" 

"Yes." 

"They  do  not  wish  to  see  me  themselves?" 

"No." 

"Nor  perhaps — wish  me  to  return  to  them?" 

"No." 

She  nodded  as  she  looked  away  again;  in  sheer  de- 
fiance, he  supposed.  He  did  not  guess  that  she  did  it  to 
mask  the  irrepressible  shiver  which  the  news  caused  her. 

He  thought  her,  on  the  contrary,  utterly  unrepentant, 
and  it  hardened  him  to  speak  more  austerely,  to  give 
his  feelings  freer  vent. 

"Had  you  done  this  thing  with  a  gentleman,"  he  said, 
"there  had  been,  however  heartless  and  foolish  the  act, 
some  hope  that  the  matter  might  be  set  straight.  And 
some  excuse  for  yourself ;  since  a  man  of  our  class  might 


96  PUNISHMENT 

have  dazzled  you  by  the  possession  of  qualities  which 
the  person  you  chose  could  not  have.  But  an  elopement 
with  a  needy  adventurer,  without  breeding,  parts,  or 
honesty — a  criminal,  and  wedded  already " 

"If  he  were  not  wedded  already,"  she  said,  "I  had 
been  with  him  now  !" 

His  face  grew  a  shade  more  severe,  but  otherwise  he 
did  not  heed  the  taunt. 

"Such  an — an  act,"  he  said,  "unfits  you  in  your 
brother's  eyes  to  return  to  his  home."  He  paused  an 
instant.  "Or  to  the  family  you  have  disgraced.  I  am 
bound — I  have  no  option,  to  tell  you  this." 

"You  say  it  as  from  them?" 

"I  do.  I  have  said  indeed  less  than  they  bade  me 
say.  And  not  more,  I  believe  on  my  honour,  than  the 
occasion  requires.  A  young  gentlewoman,"  he  contin- 
ued bitterly,  "brought  up  in  the  country  with  every  care, 
sheltered  from  every  temptation,  with  friends,  with 
home,  with  every  comfort  and  luxury,  and  about  to  be 
married  to  a  gentleman  in  her  own  rank  in  life,  meets 
secretly,  clandestinely,  shamefully  a  man,  the  lowest  of 
the  low,  on  a  par  in  refinement  with  her  own  servants, 
but  less  worthy!  She  deceives  with  him  her  friends, 
her  family,  her  relatives !  If" — with  some  emotion — "  I 
have  overstated  one  of  these  things,  God  forgive  me !" 

"Pray  go  on!"  she  said,  with  her  face  averted.  And 
thinking  that  she  was  utterly  hardened,  utterly  without 
heart,  thinking  that  her  outward  calm  spelled  callous- 
ness, and  that  she  felt  nothing,  he  did  continue. 

"Can  she,"  he  said,  "who  has  been  so  deceitful  her- 
self, complain  if  the  man  deceives  her?  She  has  chosen 
a  worthless  creature  before  her  family  and  her  friends  ? 
Is  she  not  richly  served  if  he  treats  her  after  his  own 


PUNISHMENT  $q 

nature  and  her  example?  If,  after  stooping  to  the  law- 
less level  of  such  a  poor  thing,  she  finds  herself  involved 
in  his  penalties,  and  her  name  a  scandal  and  a  shame  to 
her  family !" 

"Is  that  all?"  she  asked.  But  not  a  quiver  of  the 
voice,  not  a  tremour  of  the  shoulders,  betrayed  what  she 
was  feeling,  what  she  suffered,  how  fiercely  the  brand 
was  burning  into  her  soul. 

"That  is  all  they  bade  me  say,"  he  replied  in  a  calmer 
and  more  gentle  tone.  "And  that  they  would  make  ar- 
rangements— such  arrangements  as  may  be  possible  for 
your  future.  But  they  would  not  take  you  back." 

"And  now — what  on  your  own  account?"  she  asked, 
almost  flippantly.  "Something,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  answering  her  slowly,  and  with  a 
steady  look  of  condemnation.  For  in  all  honesty  the 
girl's  attitude  shocked  and  astonished  him.  "I  have 
something  to  say  on  my  own  account.  Something.  But 
it  is  difficult  to  say  it." 

She  turned  to  him  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Eeally !"  she  said.    "You  seem  to  speak  so  easily." 

He  did  not  remark  how  white,  even  against  the  pale 
shimmer  of  the  lake,  was  the  face  that  mocked  him ;  and 
her  heartlessness  seemed  dreadful  to  him. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "to  say  only  one  thing  on  my  own 
account." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  you  must  not  say,"  she  re- 
torted, turning  on  him  without  warning  and  speaking 
with  concentrated  passion.  "I  have  been,  it  may  be, 
as  foolish  as  you  say.  I  am  only  nineteen.  I  may  have 
been,  I  don't  know  about  that,  very  wicked — as  wicked 
as  you  say.  And  what  I  have  done  in  my  folly  and  in 
my — you  call  it  wickedness — may  be  a  disgrace  to  my 


98  PUNISHMENT 

family.  But  I  have  done  nothing,  nothing,  sir," — she 
raised  her  head  proudly — "to  disgrace  myself  personally. 
Do  you  believe  that?" 

And  then  he  did  notice  how  white  she  was. 

"If  you  tell  me  that,  I  do  believe  it,"  he  said  gravely. 

"You  must  believe  it,"  she  rejoined  with  sudden  ve- 
hemence. "Or  you  wrong  me  more  cruelly  than  I  have 
wronged  you !" 

"I  do  believe  it,"  he  said,  conquered  for  the  time  by 
a  new  emotion. 

"Then  now  I  will  hear  you,"  she  answered,  her  tone 
sinking  again.  "I  will  hear  what  you  wish  to  say.  Not 
that  it  will  bend  me.  I  have  injured  you.  I  own  it,  and 
am  sorry  for  it  on  your  account.  On  my  own  I  am 
unhappy,  but  I  had  been  more  unhappy  had  I  married 
you.  You  have  been  frank,  let  me  be  frank,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  eyes  alight,  her  tone  almost  imperious. 
"You  sought  not  a  wife,  but  a  mother  for  your  child! 
A  woman,  a  little  better  bred  than  a  nurse,  to  whom 
you  could  entrust  the  one  being,  the  only  being,  you 
love,  with  less  chance  of  its  contamination,"  she  laughed 
icily,  "by  the  lower  orders !  If  you  had  any  other  motive 
in  choosing  me  it  was  that  I  was  your  second  cousin, 
of  your  own  respectable  family,  and  you  did  not  dero- 
gate. But  you  forgot  that  I  was  young  and  a  woman, 
as  you  were  a  man.  You  said  no  word  of  love  to  me, 
you  begged  for  no  favour;  when  you  entered  a  room, 
you  sought  my  eye  no  more  than  another's,  you  had  no 
more  softness  for  me  than  for  another !  If  you  courted 
me  at  all  it  was  before  others,  and  if  you  talked  to  me 
at  all  it  was  from  the  height  of  wise  dullness,  and 
about  things  I  did  not  understand  and  things  I  hated ! 
Until,"  she  continued  viciously,  "at  last  I  hated  you! 


PUNISHMENT  99 

What  could  be  more  natural?  What  did.  you  ex- 
pect?" 

A  little  colour  had  stolen  into  his  face  under  the  lash 
of  her  reproaches.  He  tried  to  seem  indifferent,  but  he 
could  not  His  tone  was  forced  and  constrained  when 
he  answered. 

"You  have  strange  ideas,"  he  said. 

"And  you  have  but  two !"  she  riposted.  "Politics  and 
your  boy !  I  cared,"  with  concentrated  bitterness,  "for 
neither !" 

That  stung  him  to  anger  and  retort. 

"I  can  imagine  it,"  he  said.  "Your  likings  appear 
to  be  on  a  different  plane." 

"They  are  at  least  not  confined  to  fifty  families !"  she 
rejoined.  "I  do  not  think  myself  divine,"  she  continued 
with  feverish  irony,  "and  all  below  me  clay!  I  do  not 
think  because  I  and  all  about  me  are  dull  and  stupid 
that  all  the  world  is  dull  and  stupid,  talking  eternally 
about" — and  she  deliberately  mocked  his  tone — "  'the 
licence  of  the  press !'  and  'the  imminence  of  anarchy !' 
To  talk,"  with  supreme  scorn,  "of  the  licence  of  the 
press  and  the  imminence  of  anarchy  to  a  girl  of  nine- 
teen !  It  was  at  least  to  make  the  way  very  smooth  for 
another !" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  frowning.  Her  frankness 
was  an  outrage  on  his  dignity — and  he,  of  all  men, 
loved  his  dignity.  But  it  surprised  him  at  least  as  much 
as  it  shocked  him.  He  remembered  the  girl  sometimes 
silly,  sometimes  demure,  to  whom  he  had  cast  the  hand- 
kerchief; and  he  had  not  been  more  astonished  if  a 
sheep  had  stood  up  and  barked  at  him.  He  was  here, 
prepared  to  meet  a  frightened,  weeping,  shamefaced 
child,  imploring  pardon,  imploring  mediation;  and  he 


100  PUNISHMENT 

found  this!  He  was  here  to  upbraid,  and  she  scolded 
him.  She  marked  with  unerring  eye  the  joints  in  his 
armour,  and  with  her  venomous  woman's  tongue  she 
planted  darts  that  he  knew  would  rankle — rankle  long 
after  she  was  gone  and  he  was  alone.  And  a  faint 
glimpse  of  the  truth  broke  on  him.  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  misread  the  girl;  whom  he  had  deemed  char- 
acterless, when  she  was  not  shy?  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  under- valued  her  and  slighted  her?  Was  it 
possible  that,  while  he  had  been  judging  her  and  talking 
down  to  her,  she  had  been  judging  him  and  laughing  in 
her  sleeve? 

The  thought  was  not  pleasant  to  a  proud  nature.  And 
there  was  another  thing  he  had  to  weigh.  If  she  were  so 
different  in  fact  from  the  conception  he  had  formed  of 
her,  the  course  which  had  occurred  to  him  as  the  best, 
and  which  he  was  going  to  propose  for  her,  might  not 
be  the  best. 

But  he  put  that  from  him.  A  name  for  firmness  at 
times  compels  a  man  to  obstinacy.  It  was  so  now.  He 
set  his  jaw  more  stiffly,  and — 

"Will  you  hear  me  now?"  he  asked. 

"If  there  is  anything  more  to  be  said,"  she  replied. 
She  spoke  wearily  over  her  shoulder. 

"I  think  there  is,"  he  rejoined  stubbornly,  "one  thing. 
It  will  not  keep  you  long.  It  refers  to  your  future. 
There  is  a  course  which  I  think  may  be  taken  and  may 
be  advantageous  to  you." 

"If,"  she  cried  impetuously,  "it  is  to  take  me  back  to 
those " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  replied.  He  was  not  unwilling 
to  wound  one  who  had  shown  herself  so  unexpectedly 
capable  of  offence.  "That  is  quite  past,"  he  continued. 


PUNISHMENT  101 

"There  is  no  longer  any  question  of  that.  And  even  the 
course  I  suggest  is  not  without  its  disadvantages.  It 
may  not,  at  first  sight,  be  more  acceptable  to  you  than 
returning  to  your  home.  But  I  trust  you  have  learnt 
a  lesson,  and  will  now  be  guided."  After  saying  which 
he  coughed  and  hesitated,  and  at  length,  after  twice 
pulling  up  his  cravat,  "I  think,"  he  said — "the  matter 
is  somewhat  delicate — that  I  had  better  write  what  I 
have  in  my  mind." 

Under  the  dead  weight  of  depression  which  had  suc- 
ceeded to  passion,  curiosity  stirred  faintly  in  her.  But — 

"As  you  please,"  she  said. 

"The  more,"  he  continued  stiffly,  "as  in  the  immedi- 
ate present  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  And  therefore 
there  is  no  haste.  Until  this" — he  made  a  wry  face,  the 
thing  was  so  hateful  to  him — '"this  inquiry  is  at  an  end, 
and  you  are  free  to  leave,  nothing  but  preliminaries  can 
be  dealt  with;  those  settled,  however,  I  think  there 
should  be  no  delay.  But  you  shall  hear  from  me  within 
the  week." 

"Very  well."  And  after  a  slight  pause,  "That  is 
all?" 

"That  is  all,  I  think." 

Yet  he  did  not  go.  And  she  continued  to  stand  with 
her  shoulder  turned  towards  him.  He  was  a  man  of 
strong  prejudices,  and  the  habit  of  command  had  ren- 
dered him  in  some  degree  callous.  But  he  was  neither 
unkind  by  nature,  nor,  in  spite  of  the  story  Walterson 
had  told  of  him,  inhuman  in  practice.  To  leave  a  young 
girl  thus,  to  leave  her  without  a  word  of  leave-taking 
or  regret,  seemed  even  to  him,  now  it  came  to  the  point, 
barbarous.  The  road  stretched  lonely  on  either  side  of 
them,  the  woods  were  brown  and  sad  and  almost  leaf- 


102  PUNISHMENT 

less,  the  lake  below  them  mirrored  the  unchanging  grey 
above,  or  lost  itself  in  dreary  mist.  And  he  remembered 
her  in  surroundings  so  different !  He  remembered  how 
she  had  been  reared,  by  whom  encircled,  amid  what 
plenitude!  And  though  he  did  not  guess  that  the 
slender  figure  standing  thus  mute  and  forlorn  would 
haunt  him  by  night  and  by  day  for  weeks  to  come,  and 
harry  and  torment  him  with  dumb  reproaches — he  still 
had  not  the  heart  to  go  without  one  gentler  word. 

And  so  "No,  there  is  one  thing,"  he  said,  his  voice 
shaking  very  slightly,  "I  would  like  to  add — I  would 
like  you  to  know.  It  is  that  after  next  week  I  shall  be 
at  Eysby  in  Cartmel — Rysby  Hall — for  about  a  month. 
It  is  not  more  than  two  miles  from  the  foot  of  the  lake, 
and  if  you  are  still  here  and  need  advice " 

"Thank  you." 

" or  help,  I  would  like  you  to  know  that  I  am 

there." 

"That  I  may  apply  to  you?"  she  said  without  turning 
her  head. 

He  could  not  tell  whether  at  last  there  were  tears  in 
her  voice,  or  whether  she  were  merely  drawing  him  on 
to  flout  him. 

"I  meant  that,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Thank  you." 

Certainly  there  was  a  queer  sound  in  her  voice. 

He  paused  awkwardly. 

"There  is  nothing  more,  I  think?"  he  said. 

"Nothing,  thank  you." 

"Very  well,"  he  returned.  "Then  you  will  hear  from 
me  upon  the  matter  I  mentioned — in  a  day  or  two. 
Good-bye." 

He  went  then — awkwardly,  slowly.    He  felt  himself, 


PUNISHMENT  103 

in  spite  of  his  arguments,  in  spite  of  his  anger,  in  spite 
of  the  wrong  which  she  had  done  him,  and  the  disgrace 
which  she  brought  on  his  name, — he  felt  himself  some- 
thing of  a  cur.  She  was  little  more  than  a  child,  little 
more  than  a  child;  and  he  had  not  understood  her! 
Even  now  he  had  no  notion  how  often  that  plea  would 
ring  in  his  ears,  and  harass  him  and  keep  him  wakeful. 
And  Henrietta?  She  had  told  herself  before  the  in- 
terview that  with  it  the  worst  would  be  over.  But  as 
she  heard  his  firm  tread  pass  slowly  away,  down  the 
road,  and  grow  fainter  and  fainter,  the  pride  that  had 
supported  her  under  his  eyes  sank  low.  A  sense  of  her 
loneliness,  so  cruel  that  it  wrung  her  heart,  so  cruel  that 
she  could  have  run  after  him  and  begged  him  to  punish 
her,  to  punish  her  as  he  pleased,  if  he  would  not  leave 
her  deserted,  gripped  her  throat  and  brought  salt  tears 
to  her  eyes.  The  excitement  was  over,  the  flatness  re- 
mained ;  the  failure,  and  the  grey  skies  and  leaden  water 
and  dying  bracken.  And  she  was  alone;  alone  for  al- 
ways. She  had  defied  him,  she  had  defied  them  all,  she 
had  told  him  that  whatever  happened  she  would  not  go 
back,  she  would  not  be  taken  back.  But  she  knew  now 
that  she  had  lied.  And  she  crossed  the  road,  her  step 
unsteady,  and  stumbled  blindly  up  the  woodland  path 
above  the  road,  until  she  came  to  a  place  where  she  knew 
that  she  was  hidden.  There  she  flung  herself  down  on 
her  face  and  cried  passionately,  stifling  her  sobs  in  the 
green  damp  moss.  She  had  done  wrong.  She  had  done 
cruel  wrong  to  him.  But  she  was  only  nineteen,  and  she 
was  being  punished !  She  was  being  punished ! 


CHAPTER  X 

HENRIETTA   IN   NAXOS 

YOUTH  feels,  let  the  adult  say  what  he  pleases,  more 
deeply  than  middle  age.  It  suffers  and  enjoys  with  a 
poignancy  unknown  in  later  life.  But  in  revenge  it  is 
cast  down  more  lightly,  and  uplifted  with  less  reason. 
The  mature  have  seen  so  many  sunny  mornings  grow  to 
tearful  noons,  so  many  days  of  stress  close  in  peace, 
that  their  moods  are  not  to  the  same  degree  at  the  mercy 
of  passing  accidents.  It  is  with  the  young,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  with  the  tender  shoots;  they  raise  their  heads 
to  meet  the  April  sun,  as  naturally  they  droop  in  the 
harsh  east  wind.  And  Henrietta  had  been  more  than 
girl,  certainly  more  than  nineteen,  if  she  had  not  owned 
the  influence  of  the  scene  and  the  morning  that  lapped 
her  about  when  she  next  set  foot  beyond  the  threshold 
of  the  inn. 

She  had  spent  in  the  meantime  three  days  at  which 
memory  shuddered.  Alone  in  her  room,  shrinking  from 
every  eye,  turning  her  back  on  the  woman  who  waited  on 
her,  she  had  found  her  pride  insufficient  to  support  her. 
Solitude  is  a  medium  which  exaggerates  all  objects,  and 
the  longer  Henrietta  brooded  over  her  past  folly  and 
her  present  disgrace,  the  more  intolerable  these  grew  to 
the  vision. 

Fortunately,  if  Modest  Ann's  heart  bled  for  her,  Mrs. 
Gilson  viewed  her  misfortunes  with  a  saner  and  less 

104 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  105 

sensitive  eye.  She  saw  that  if  the  girl  were  left  longer 
to  herself  her  health  would  fail.  Already,  she  remarked, 
the  child  looked  two  years  older — looked  a  woman.  So 
on  the  fourth  morning  Mrs.  Gilson  burst  in  on  her, 
found  her  moping  at  the  window  with  her  eyes  on  the 
lake,  and  forthwith,  after  her  fashion,  she  treated  her 
to  a  piece  of  her  mind. 

"See  here,  young  miss,"  she  said  bluntly,  "I'll  have 
nobody  ill  in  my  house !  Much  more  making  themselves 
ill !  In  three  days  Bishop's  to  be  back,  and  they'll  want 
you,  like  enough.  And  a  pale,  peaking  face  won't  help 
you,  but  rather  the  other  way  with  men,  such  fools  as 
they  be!  You  get  your  gear  and  go  out." 

Henrietta  said  meekly  that  she  would  do  so. 

"There's  a  basket  I  want  to  send  to  Tyson's,"  the 
landlady  went  on.  "She's  ailing.  It's  a  flea's  load, 
but  I  suppose,"  sticking  her  arms  akimbo  and  looking 
straight  at  the  girl,  "you're  too  much  of  a  lady  to  carry 
it." 

"I'll  take  it  very  willingly,"  Henrietta  said.  And  she 
rose  with  a  spark  of  something  approaching  interest  in 
her  eyes. 

"Well,  I've  nobody  else,"  said  cunning  Mrs.  Gilson. 
"And  I  don't  suppose  you'll  run  from  me,  'twixt  here 
and  there.  And  she's  a  poor  thing.  She's  going  to 
have  a  babby,  and  couldn't  be  more  lonely  if  she  was  in 
Patterdale."  And  she  described  the  way,  adding  that 
if  Henrietta  kept  the  road  no  one  would  meddle  with  her 
at  that  hour  of  the  morning. 

The  girl  found  her  head-covering,  and,  submitting 
with  a  good  grace  to  the  basket,  she  set  forth.  As  she 
emerged  from  the  inn — for  three  days  she  had  not  been 
out — she  cast  a  half-shamed,  half-defiant  look  this  way 


106  HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 

and  that.  But  only  Modest  Ann  was  watching  her  from 
a  window ;  and  if  ever  St.  Martin  procured  for  the  faith- 
ful a  summer  day,  intempeslive  as  the  chroniclers  have 
it,  this  was  that  day.  A  warm  sun  glowed  in  the  brown 
hollows  of  the  wood,  and  turned  the  dying  fern  to  flame, 
and  spread  the  sheen  of  velvet  over  green  hill-side  and 
grey  crag.  A  mild  west  wind  enlivened  the  surface  of 
the  lake  with  the  sparkle  of  innumerable  wavelets,  and 
all  that  had  for  days  been  lead  seemed  turned  to  silver. 
The  air  was  brisk  and  clear;  in  a  heaven  of  their  own, 
very  far  off,  the  great  peaks  glittered  and  shone.  The 
higher  Henrietta  climbed  above  the  inn-roofs,  and  the 
cares  that  centred  there,  the  lighter,  in  spite  of  herself — 
how  could  it  be  otherwise  with  that  scene  of  beauty 
stretched  before  her  ? — rose  her  heart. 

Half  a  dozen  times  as  she  mounted  the  hill  she  paused 
to  view  the  scene  through  the  tender  mist  of  her  own 
Tinhappiness.  But  every  time  she  stood,  the  rare  fleck 
of  cloud  gliding  across  the  blue,  or  the  dancing  ripple 
of  the  water  below,  appealed  to  her,  and  caused  her 
thoughts  to  wander;  and  youth  and  hope  spoke  more 
loudly.  She  was  young.  Surely  at  her  age  an  error  was 
not  irreparable.  Surely  things  would  take  a  turn.  For 
even  now  she  was  less  unhappy,  less  ashamed. 

When  she  came  to  the  summit  of  the  shoulder,  the 
bare  gauntness  of  Hinkson's  farm,  which  resisted  even 
the  beauty  of  sunshine,  caused  her  a  momentary  chill. 
The  dog  raved  at  her  from  the  wind-swept  litter  of  the 
yard.  The  blind  gable-end  scowled  through  the  firs. 
Behind  lay  the  squalid  out-buildings,  roofless  and  empty. 
She  hurried  by — not  without  a  backward  glance.  She 
crossed  the  ridge,  and  almost  immediately  saw  in  a  cup 
of  the  hills  below  her — so  directly  below  her  that  roofs 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  107 

and  yards  and  pig-styes  lay  mapped  out  under  her  eye — 
another  farm.  On  three  sides  the  smooth  hill-turf  sloped 
steeply  to  the  walls.  On  the  fourth,  where  a  stream, 
which  had  its  source  heside  the  farm,  found  vent,  a 
wood  choked  the  descending  gorge  and  hid  the  vale  and 
the  lake  below. 

Deep-seated  in  its  green  bowl,  the  house  was  as  lonely 
in  position  as  the  house  on  the  shoulder,  but  after  a 
warmer  and  more  sheltered  fashion.  Conceivably  peace 
and  plenty,  comfort  and  happiness  might  nestle  in  it. 
Yet  the  nearer  Henrietta  descended  to  it,  leaving  the 
world  of  space  and  view,  the  more  a  sense  of  stillness 
and  isolation  and  almost  of  danger,  pressed  upon  her. 
No  sound  of  farm  life,  no  cheery  clank  of  horse-gear, 
no  human  voice  broke  the  silence  of  the  hills.  Only  a 
few  hens  scratched  in  the  fold-yard. 

She  struck  on  the  half-open  door,  and  a  pair  of  pat- 
tens clanked  across  the  kitchen  flags.  A  clownish,  dull- 
faced  woman  with  drugget  petticoats  showed  herself. 

"I've  come  to  see  Mrs.  Tyson,"  Henrietta  said.  "She's 
in  the  house  ?" 

"Oh,  ay." 

"Can  I  see  her?" 

"Oh,  ay." 

"Then " 

"She's  on  the  settle."  "As  she  spoke  the  woman  stood 
aside,  but  continued  to  stare  as  if  her  curiosity  grudged 
the  loss  of  a  moment. 

The  kitchen,  or  house  place — in  those  days  the  rough 
work  of  a  farmhouse  was  done  in  the  scullery — was 
spacious  and  clean,  though  sparsely  and  massively  fur- 
nished. The  flag  floor  was  outlined  in  white  squares, 
and  the  space  about  the  fire  was  made  more  private  by 


108  HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 

a  tall  settle  which  flanked  the  chimney  corner  and 
averted  the  draught.  These  appearances  foretold  a  red- 
armed  bustling  house-wife.  But  they  were  belied  by 
the  pale  plump  face  framed  in  untidy  hair,  which  half 
in  fright  and  half  in  bewilderment  peered  at  her  over 
the  arm  of  the  settle.  It  was  a  face  that  had  been  pretty 
after  a  feeble  fashion  no  more  than  twelve  months  back : 
now  it  bore  the  mark  of  strain  and  trouble.  And  when 
it  was  not  peevish  it  was  frightened.  Certainly  it  was 
no  longer  pretty. 

The  owner  of  the  face  got  slowly  to  her  feet  "Is  it 
me  you  want?"  she  said,  her  tone  spiritless. 

"If  you  are  Mrs.  Tyson,"  Henrietta  answered  gently. 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"I  have  brought  you  some  things  Mrs.  Gilson  of  the 
inn  wished  to  send  you." 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,"  with  stiff  shyness. 

"And  if  you  do  not  mind,"  Henrietta  continued 
frankly,  "I  will  rest  a  little.  If  I  do  not  trouble  you." 

"No,  I'm  mostly  alone,"  the  young  woman  answered, 
slowly  and  apathetically.  And  she  bade  the  servant  set  a 
chair  for  the  visitor.  That  done,  she  despatched  the 
woman  with  the  basket  to  the  larder. 

Then  "I'm  mostly  alone,"  she  repeated.  And  this 
time  her  voice  quivered,  and  her  eyes  met  the  other 
woman's  eyes. 

"But,"  Henrietta  said,  smiling,  "you  have  your  hus- 
band." 

"He's  often  away,"  wearily.  "He's  often  away;  by 
day  and  night.  He's  a  doctor." 

"But  your  servant?    You  have  her?" 

"She  goes  home,  nights.  And  then "  with  a 

spasm  of  the  querulous  face  that  had  been  pretty  no 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  109 

more  than  a  year  before,  "the  hours  are  long  when  you 
are  alone.  You  don't  know,"  timidly  reaching  out  a 
hand  as  if  she  would  touch  Henrietta's  frock — but  with- 
drawing it  quickly,  "what  it  is  to  be  alone,  miss,  all  night 
in  such  a  house  as  this." 

"No,  and  no  one  should  be!"  Henrietta  answered. 

She  glanced  round  the  great  silent  kitchen  and  tried 
to  fancy  what  the  house  would  be  like  of  nights;  when 
darkness  settled  down  on  the  hollow  in  the  hills,  and 
the  wood  cut  it  off  from  the  world  below;  and  when, 
whatever  threatened,  whatever  came,  whatever  face  of 
terror  peered  through  the  dark-paned  window,  whatever 
sound,  weird  or  startling,  rent  the  silence  of  the  dis- 
tant rooms,  this  helpless  woman  must  face  it  alone ! 

She  shuddered. 

"But  you  are  not  alone  all  night?"  she  said. 

"No,  but "  in  a  whisper,  "often  until  after  mid- 
night, miss.  And  once — all  night." 

Henrietta  restrained  the  words  that  rose  to  her  lips. 

"Ah,  well,"  she  said,  "you'll  have  your  baby  by-and- 
by." 

"Ay,  if  it  lives,"  the  other  woman  answered  moodily 
— "if  it  lives.  And,"  she  continued  in  a  whisper,  with 
her  scared  eyes  on  Henrietta's  face,  and  her  hand  on 
her  wrist,  "if  I  live,  miss." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  not  think  of  that!"  the  girl  pro- 
tested cheerfully.  "Of  course  you  will  live." 

"I've  mostly  nought  to  do  but  think,"  Tyson's  wife 
answered.  "And  I  think  queer  things — I  think  queer 
things.  Sometimes" — tightening  her  hold  on  Henri- 
etta's arm  to  stay  her  shocked  remonstrance — "that  he 
does  not  wish  me  to  live.  He's  at  the  house  on  the  shoul- 
der— Hinkson's,  the  one  you  passed — most  nights. 


HO  HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 

There's  a  girl  there.  And  yesterday  he  said  if  I  was 
lonely  she  should  come  and  bide  here  while  I  laid  up, 
and  she'd  be  company  for  me.  But" — in  a  wavering 
tone  that  was  almost  a  wail — "I'm  afraid ! — I'm  afraid." 

"Afraid?"  Henrietta  repeated,  trembling  a  little  in 
sympathy,  and  drawing  a  little  nearer  the  other.  "Of 
what?" 

"Of  her !"  the  woman  muttered,  averting  her  eyes  that 
she  might  watch  the  door.  "  Of  Bess.  She's  gypsy  blood, 
and  it's  blood  that  sticks  at  nothing.  And  she'd  be 
glad  I  was  gone.  She'd  have  him  then.  I  know !  She 
made  a  sign  at  me  one  day  when  my  back  was  turned, 
but  I  saw  it.  And  it  was  not  for  good.  Besides " 

"Oh,  but  indeed,"  Henrietta  protested,  "indeed,  you 
must  not  think  of  these  things.  You  are  not  well,  and 
you  have  fancies." 

Mrs.  Tyson  shook  her  head. 

"You'd  have  fancies,"  in  a  gloomy  tone,  "if  you  lived 
in  this  house." 

"It  is  only  because  you  are  so  much  alone  in  it,"  the 
girl  protested. 

"That's  not  all,"  with  a  shudder.  The  woman  leant 
forward  and  spoke  low  with  her  eyes  glued  to  the  door. 
"That's  not  all.  You  don't  know,  nobody  knows.  No- 
body knows — that's  alive!  But  once,  after  I  came  to 
live  here,  when  I  complained  that  he  was  out  so  much 
and  was  not  treating  me  well,  he  took  and  showed  me — 
he  took  and  showed  me " 

"What?"  Henrietta  spoke  as  lightly  as  she  could. 
"What  did  he  show  you?"  For  the  woman  had  broken 
off,  and  with  her  eyes  closed  seemed  to  be  on  the  point 
of  fainting. 

"Nothing — nothing,"   Mrs.   .Tyson   said,   recovering 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  HI 

herself  with  a  sudden  gasp.  "And  here's  the  basket, 
miss.  Meg  lives  down  below.  Shall  she  carry  the  basket 
to  Mrs.  Gilson's  ?  It  is  not  fitting  a  young  lady  like  you 
should  carry  it." 

"Oh,  no;  I  will  take  it,"  Henrietta  answered,  with 
as  careless  an  air  as  she  could  muster. 

And  after  a  moment's  awkward  hesitation,  under  the 
eyes  of  the  dull  serving-maid,  she  rose.  She  would 
gladly  have  stayed  and  heard  more;  for  her  pity  and 
curiosity  were  alike  vividly  roused.  But  it  was  plain 
that  for  the  present  she  could  neither  act  upon  the  one 
nor  assuage  the  other.  She  read  a  plea  for  silence  in  the 
eyes  of  the  weak,  frightened  woman;  and  having  said 
that  probably  Mrs.  Gilson  would  be  sending  her  that 
way  again  before  long,  she  took  her  leave. 

Wondering  much.  For  the  low-ceiled  kitchen,  with 
its  shadowy  chimney-corner  and  its  low-browed  windows, 
had  another  look  for  her  now;  and  the  stillness  of  the 
house  another  meaning.  All  might  be  the  fancy  of  a  ner- 
vous, brooding  woman.  And  yet  there  was  something. 
And,  something  or  nothing,  there  were  unhappiness  and 
fear  and  cruelty  in  this  quiet  work.  As  she  climbed  the 
track  that  led  again  to  the  lip  of  the  basin,  and  to  sun- 
shine and  brisk  air  and  freedom,  she  had  less  pity  for  her- 
self, she  thought  less  of  herself.  She  might  have  lain  at 
the  mercy  of  a  careless,  faithless  husband,  who  played  on 
her  fears  and  mocked  her  appeals.  She,  when  in  her 
early  unbroken  days  she  complained,  might  have  been 
taken  and  scared  by — heaven  knew  what! 

She  was  still  thinking  with  indignation  of  the  woman's 
plight  when  she  gained  the  road.  A  hundred  paces 
brought  her  to  Hinkson's.  And  there,  standing  under 
the  firs  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  looking  over  her 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 

shoulder  as  if  she  had  turned,  in  the  act  of  entering,  t» 
see  who  passed,  was  the  dark  girl;  the  same  whose  in- 
solent smile  had  annoyed  her  on  the  morning  of  her 
arrival,  hefore  she  knew  what  was  in  store  for  her. 

Their  eyes  met.  Again  Henrietta's  face,  to  her  in- 
tense vexation,  flamed.  Then  the  dog  sprang  up  and 
raved  at  her,  and  she  passed  on  down  the  road.  But  she 
was  troubled.  She  was  vexed  with  herself  for  losing 
countenance,  and  still  more  angry  with  the  girl  whose 
mocking  smile  had  so  strange  a  power  to  wound  her. 

"That  must  be  the  creature  we  have  been  discussing," 
she  thought.  "Odd  that  I  should  meet  her,  and  still 
more  odd  that  I  should  have  seen  her  before!  I  don't 
wonder  that  the  woman  fears  her !  But  why  does  she 
look  at  me,  of  all  people,  after  that  fashion?" 

She  told  herself  that  it  was  her  fancy,  and  trying  to 
forget  the  matter,  she  tripped  on  down  the  road.  Pres- 
ently, before  her  cheeks  or  her  temper  were  quite  cool, 
she  saw  that  she  was  going  to  meet  some  one — a  maa 
who  was  slowly  mounting  the  hill  on  horseback.  A  mo- 
ment later  she  made  out  that  the  rider  who  was  ap- 
proaching was  Mr.  Hornyold,  and  her  face  grew  hot 
again.  The  meeting  was  humiliating.  She  wished  her- 
self anywhere  else.  But  at  the  worst  she  could  bow 
coldly  and  pass  by. 

She  reckoned  without  the  justice,  who  was  wont  to 
say  that  when  he  wore  a  cassock  he  was  a  parson,  and 
when  he  wore  his  top-boots  he  was  a  gentleman.  He 
recognised  her  with  a  subdued  "View  halloa!"  and 
pulled  up  as  she  drew  near.  He  slid  from  his  saddle — 
with  an  agility  his  bulk  did  not  promise — and  barred  the 
way. 

With  a  grin  and  an  over-gallant  salute,  "Dear,  dear, 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  113 

dear,"  he  said.  "Isn't  this  out  of  bounds,  young  lady? 
Outside  the  rules  of  the  bench,  eh?  What'd  Mother 
Gilson  be  saying  if  she  saw  you  here  ?" 

"I  have  been  on  an  errand  for  her,"  Henrietta  re- 
plied, in  her  coldest  tone. 

But  she  had  to  stop.  The  road  was  narrow,  and  he 
had,  as  by  accident,  put  his  horse  across  it. 

"An  errand?"  he  said,  smiling  more  broadly,  "as 
far  as  this  ?  She  is  very  trusting !  More  trusting  than 
I  should  be  with  a  young  lady  of  your  appearance,  who 
twist  all  the  men  round  your  finger." 

Henrietta's  eyes  sparkled. 

"I  am  returning  to  her,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  late. 
Please  to  let  me  pass." 

"To  be  sure  I  will,"  he  said.  But  instead  of  moving 
aside  he  drew  a  pace  nearer;  so  that  between  himself, 
the  horse,  and  the  bank,  she  was  hemmed  in.  "To  be 
sure,  young  lady !"  he  continued.  "But  that  is  not  quite 
the  tone  to  take  with  the  powers  that  be !  We  are  gentle 
as  sucking  doves — to  pretty  young  women — while  we 
are  pleased ;  and  ready  to  stretch  a  point,  as  we  did  the 
other  day,  for  our  friend  Clyne,  who  was  so  deuced 
mysterious  about  the  matter.  But  we  must  have  our 
quid  pro  quo,  eh  ?  Come,  a  kiss !  Just  one.  There  are 
only  the  birds  to  see  and  the  hedges  to  tell,  and  I'll 
warrant" — the  leer  more  plain  in  his  eyes — "you  are 
not  always  so  particular." 

Henrietta  was  not  frightened,  but  she  was  angry  and 
savage. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  she  cried,  for  the  moment 
forgetting  herself  in  her  passion. 

"No !"  he  answered,  before  she  could  say  more.  "That 
is  just  what  I  don't  know,  my  girl.  I  have  taken  you 


114;  HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS 

on  trust  and  you  are  pretty  enough !  But  I  know  Clyne, 
and  he  is  interested  in  you.  And  his  taste  is  good 
enough  for  me!" 

"Let  me  pass !"  she  cried. 

He  tried  to  seize  her,  but  she  evaded  his  grasp,  slipped 
fearlessly  behind  the  horse's  heels  and  stood  free. 
Hornyold  wheeled  about,  and  with  an  oath : 

"You  sly  baggage!"  he  cried.  "You  are  not  going 
to  escape  so  easily !  You " 

There  he  stopped.  Not  twenty  yards  from  him  and 
less  than  that  distance  beyond  her,  was  a  stranger.  The 
sight  was  so  little  to  be  expected  in  that  solitary  place, 
he  had  been  so  sure  that  they  were  alone  and  the  girl 
at  the  mercy  of  his  rudeness,  that  he  broke  off,  staring. 
The  stranger  came  slowly  on,  and  when  almost  abreast 
of  Henrietta  raised  his  hat  and  paused,  dividing  his 
regards  between  the  scowling  magistrate  and  the  indig- 
nant girl. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  addressing  her.  "If  I  am 
not  inopportune,  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  Captain 
Clyne." 

"Then  be  good  enough,"  she  answered,  "first  to  take 
me  out  of  the  company  of  this  person."  And  she  turned 
her  shoulder  on  the  justice,  and  taking  the  stranger  with 
her — almost  in  his  own  despite — she  sailed  off;  and,  a 
very  picture  of  outraged  dignity,  swept  down  the  road. 

Mr.  Hornyold  glared  after  her,  his  bridle  on  his  arm. 
And  his  face  was  red  with  fury.  Seldom  had  he  been 
so  served. 

"A  parson,  by  heaven!"  he  said.  "A  regular  Meth- 
ody,  too,  by  his  niminy-piminy  get-up!  Who  is  he,  I 
wonder,  and  what  in  the  name  of  mischief  brought  him 
here  just  at  that  moment?  Ten  to  one  she  was  looking 


HENRIETTA  IN  NAXOS  '115 

to  meet  him,  and  that  was  why  she  played  the  prude, 
the  little  cat !  To  be  sure.  But  I'll  be  even  with  her — 
in  Appleby  gaol  or  out!  As  for  him,  I've  never  set 
eyes  on  him.  And  I've  a  good  notion  to  have  him  taken 
up  and  lodged  in  the  lock-up.  Any  way,  I'll  set  the  run- 
ners on  him.  Not  much  spirit  in  him  by  the  look  of 
him !  But  she's  a  spit-fire !" 

Mr.  Hornyold  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  consider 
the  girls  of  the  village  fair  sport,  that  he  was  consider- 
ably put  out.  True,  Henrietta  was  not  a  village  girl. 
She  was  something  more,  and  a  mystery;  nor  least  a 
mystery  in  her  relations  with  Captain  Clyne,  a  man 
whom  the  justice  admitted  to  be  more  important  than 
himself.  But  she  was  in  trouble,  she  was  under  a  cloud, 
she  was  smirched  with  suspicion;  she  was  certainly  no 
better  than  she  should  be.  And  not  experience  only, 
but  all  the  coarser  instincts  of  the  man  forbade  him 
to  believe  in  such  a  woman's  "No." 


CHAPTER  XI 
CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN- 
FOE  a  full  hundred  yards  Henrietta  walked  on  with 
her  head  in  the  air,  too  angry  to  accost  or  even  to  look 
at  her  companion;  who,  on  his  part,  tripped  meekly 
beside  her.    Then  a  sense  of  the  absurdity  of  the  position 
— of  his  position  rather  than  her  own,  for  she  had 
whirled  him  off  whether  he  would  or  no — overcame  her. 
And  she  laughed. 

"Was  ever  anything  so  ridiculous?"  she  cried.  And 
she  looked  at  him  askance  and  something  ashamed.  The 
quick  movement  which  had  enabled  her  to  escape  had 
loosened  the  thick  mass  of  her  fair  hair,  and  this,  with 
her  flushed  cheeks  and  kindled  eyes,  showed  her  so 
handsome  that  it  was  well  the  impetuous  justice  was 
no  longer  with  her. 

The  stranger  was  apparently  less  impressionable. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said  primly,  "that  my  coming  was 
so  opportune." 

"  Oh !  I  was  not  afraid  of  him,"  Henrietta  answered, 
tossing  her  head. 

"No?"  he  rejoined.  "Indeed.  Still,  I  am  glad  that 
I  came  so  opportunely." 

He  was  a  neat,  trim  man  in  black,  of  a  pale  com- 
plexion, and  with  the  small  features  and  the  sharp  nose 
that  indicate  at  once  timidity  and  obstinacy;  the  nose 
that  in  the  case  of  the  late  Right  Honourable  William 
Pitt,  whom  he  was  proud  to  resemble,  meant  something 

116 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN  117 

more.  But  for  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  he  had  been  wholly 
mean,  and  wholly  insignificant;  and  Henrietta  saw 
nothing  in  him  either  formidable  or  attractive.  She 
had  a  notion  that  she  had  seen  him  somewhere;  but  it 
was  a  vague  notion,  and  how  he  came  to  be  here  or 
commissioned  to  her  she  could  no  more  conjecture  than 
if  he  had  risen  from  the  ground. 

"You  are  a  stranger  here?"  she  said  at  last,  after 
more  than  one  side-long  glance. 

"Yes,  I  descended  from  the  coach  an  hour  ago." 

"And  came  in  search  of  me?"1 

"Precisely,"  he  replied.  "Being  empowered  to  do  so," 
he  continued,  with  a  slight  but  formal  bow,  "by  Captain 
Anthony  Clyne,  to  whom  I  have  the  honour — my  name 
is  Sutton — of  being  related  in  the  capacity  of  chaplain." 

She  coloured  more  violently  with  shame  than  before 
with  anger :  and  all  her  troubles  came  back  to  her.  Proba- 
bly this  man  knew  all;  knew  what  she  had  done  and 
what  had  happened  to  her.  It  was  cruel — oh,  it  was 
cruel  to  send  him !  For  a  moment  she  could  not  collect 
her  thoughts  or  master  her  voice.  But  at  last, 

"Oh!"  she  said  confusedly.  "I  see.  A  lovely  view 
from  here,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  he  replied,  with  the  same  precision 
with  which  he  had  spoken  before.  "I  ought  to  have 
noticed  it." 

"And  you  bring  me  a  letter?" 

"It  was  Captain  dyne's  wish  that  I "  he  hesi- 
tated, and  was  plainly  embarrassed — "that  I  should,  in 
fact,  offer  my  company  for  a  day  or  two.  While  you 
are  under  the  care  of  the  good  woman  at  the  inn." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him,  and  regarded  him 
with  a  mixture  of  surprise  and  distaste.  Then, 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

"Indeed?"  she  said  coldly.  "In  what  capacity,  if 
you  please?" 

But  the  words  said,  she  felt  her  cheeks  grow  hot. 
.They  thought  so  ill  of  her,  she  had  so  misbehaved  her- 
self, that  a  duenna  was  not  enough;  a  clergyman  must 
be  sent  to  lecture  her.  By-and-by  he  would  talk  goody- 
goody  to  her,  such  as  they  talked  to  Lucy  in  The  Fair- 
child  Family!  Save  that  she  was  grown  up  and  Lucy 
was  not! 

"But  it  does  not  matter,"  she  continued  hurriedly, 
and  before  he  could  answer,  "I  am  obliged  to  you,  but 
Mrs.  Gilson  is  quite  able  to  take  care  of  me." 

"And  yet  I  came  very  opportunely — just  now,"  he 
said.  "I  am  glad  I  came  so  opportunely." 

Reminded  of  the  insolence  to  which  her  loneliness 
had  exposed  her,  Henrietta  felt  her  cheek  grow  hot 
again. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  did  not  need  you!  But  I  thought 
you  said  you  brought  a  letter  ?" 

"I  have  a  letter.  But  I  beg  leave — to  postpone  its 
delivery  for  a  day  or  two." 

"How?"  in  astonishment.    "If  it  is  for  me?" 

"By  Captain  dyne's  directions,"  he  answered. 

She  stopped  short  and  faced  him,  rebellion  in  her 
eyes. 

"Then  why,"  she  said  proudly,  "seek  me  out  now  if 
this  letter  is  not  to  be  delivered  at  once?" 

"That,  too,  is  by  his  order,"  Mr.  Sutton  explained 
in  the  same  tone.  "And  pardon  me  for  saying,"  he 
continued,  with  a  meaning  cough,  "that  I  have  seen 
enough  to  be  assured  of  Captain  Clyne's  forethought. 
Apart  from  which,  in  Lancashire,  at  any  rate,  the  times 
are  so  troubled,  the  roads  so  unsafe,  the  common  people 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN  119 

so  outrageous,  that  for  a  young  lady  to  walk  out  alone 
is  not  safe." 

"He  should  have  sent  a  servant,  then!"  she  answered 
sharply. 

A  faint  colour  rose  to  the  chaplain's  cheeks. 

"He  thought  me  more  trustworthy,  perhaps,"  he  said 
meekly.  "And  it  is  possible  he  was  under  the  impres- 
sion that  my  company  might  be  more  acceptable." 

"If  I  may  be  plain,"  she  answered  tartly,  "I  am  in 
no  mood  for  a  stranger's  company." 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  with  a  gleam  of  appeal  in  his 
eyes,  "I  would  fain  hope  to  make  myself  acceptable." 

She  gave  him  no  direct  answer ;  only, 

"I  cannot  understand,  I  really  cannot  understand," 
she  said,  "of  what  he  was  thinking.  You  had  better 
give  me  the  letter  now,  sir.  I  may  find  something  in 
that  which  may  explain." 

But  he  only  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  I  must  not  disobey  the 
directions  which  Captain  Clyne  laid  upon  me." 

"Very  good,"  she  retorted;  "that  is  as  you  please. 
Only — our  paths  separate  here.  The  road  we  are  on  will 
take  you  to  the  inn — you  cannot  miss  it.  My  path  lies 
this  way." 

And  with  a  stiff  little  bow  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
gate  which  gave  entrance  to  the  field-path;  the  same 
path  that  led  down  through  the  coppice  to  the  back 
of  the  Low  Wood  inn.  She  passed  through. 

He  hesitated  an  instant,  then  he  also  turned  in  at  the 
gate.  And  as  she  halted,  eyeing  him  in  displeasure — 

"I  really  cannot  let  you  stray  from  the  high-road 
alone,"  he  said.  "You  will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure,  if  I 
seem  intrusive.  But  it  is  not  safe.  I  have  seen  enough," 


120  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

with  a  smirk,  "to  know  that — that  beauty  unattended 
goes  in  danger  amid  these  lovely" — he  waved  his  hand 
in  kindly  patronage  of  the  lake — "these  lovely,  but  wild 
surroundings." 

"You  mean,"  she  answered,  with  a  dangerous  light  in 
her  eyes,  "that  you  will  force  your  company  on  me,  sir? 
Whether  I  will  or  no?" 

"Not  force,  no!  No!  No!  But  I  must,  I  can  only 
do  as  I  am  ordered.  I  should  not  presume  of  myself," 
he  continued,  with  a  touch  of  real  humility — "even  to 
offer  my  company.  I  should  not  look  so  high.  I  should 
think  such  an  honour  above  me.  But  I  was  led  to  be- 
lieve  » 

"By  Captain  Clyne?" 

"Yes,  that — that,  in  fact,  you  were  willing  to  make 
what  amends  you  could  for  the  injury  done  to  him. 
And  that,  if  only  for  that  reason,  I  might  expect  a  more 
favourable  reception  at  your  hands." 

"But  why,  sir? — why?"  she  cried,  cut  to  the  quick. 
To  suffer  this  man,  this  stranger,  to  talk  to  her  of 
making  amends!  "What  good  will  it  do  to  Captain 
Clyne  if  I  receive  you  ever  so  favourably?" 

He  looked  at  her  humbly,  with  appeal  in  his  eyes. 

"If  you  would  deign  to  wait,"  he  said,  and  he  wiped 
his  forehead,  "I  think  I  could  make  that  more  clear 
to  you  afterwards." 

But  very  naturally  his  persistence  offended  her.  That 
word  amends,  too,  stuck  in  her  throat.  Her  pride,  made 
restive  by  her  encounter  with  Hornyold,  was  up  in  arms. 

"I  shall  not  wait  a  moment,"  she  said.  "Not  a  mo- 
ment! Understand,  sir,  that  if  you  accompany  me 
against  my  will,  my  first  act  on  reaching  the  inn  will 
be  to  complain  to  the  landlady,  and  seek  her  protection." 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN  121 

"Surely  not  against  Captain  dyne's  pleni — plenipo- 
tentiary?" he  murmured  abjectly.  "Surely  not!" 

"I  do  not  know  what  a  pleni-plenipotentiary  is,"  she 
retorted.  "But  if  you  follow  me,  you  follow  at  your 
peril !" 

And  she  turned  her  back  on  him,  and  plunged  down- 
wards through  the  wood.  She  did  not  deign  to  look  be- 
hind; but  her  ears  told  her  that  he  was  not  following. 
For  the  rest,  all  the  beauty  of  the  wood,  shot  through 
with  golden  lights,  all  the  cool  loveliness  of  the  dell, 
with  its  emerald  mosses  and  flash  of  jewelled  wings,  were 
lost  upon  her  now,  so  sore  was  she  and  so  profoundly 
humiliated.  Twice  in  one  morning  she  had  been  in- 
sulted. Twice  in  one  hour  had  a  man  shown  her  that 
he  held  her  fair  game.  Were  they  right,  then,  who 
preached  that  outside  the  sanctum  of  home  no  girl  was 
safe?  Or  was  it  her  story,  her  conduct,  her  disgrace, 
known  to  all  for  miles  round,  that  robbed  her  of  the  right 
to  respect  ? 

Either  way  she  was  unhappy,  frightened,  nay,  shocked ; 
and  she  longed  to  be  within  doors,  where  she  need  not 
restrain  herself.  Too  proud  to  confide  in  Mrs.  Gilson, 
she  longed  none  the  less  for  some  one  to  whom  she  could 
unburden  herself.  Was  she  to  go  through  the  world 
exposed  to  such  scenes  ?  Must  she  be  daily  and  hourly 
on  her  guard  against  rude  insult,  or  more  odious  gal- 
lantries? And  if  these  things  befell  her  in  this  quiet 
spot,  what  must  she  expect  in  the  world,  deserted  as  she 
was  by  all  those  who  would  once  have  protected  her  ? 

She  looked  to  gain  her  room  without  further  un- 
pleasantness; for  the  path  she  followed  led  her  to  the 
back  door,  and  she  could  enter  that  way.  But  she  was 
not  to  be  so  fortunate.  In  the  yard,  awaiting  her  with 


122  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

his  hat  in  his  hand  and  the  flush  of  haste  on  his  pallid 
face,  was  Mr.  Sutton. 

Poor  Henrietta!  she  ground  her  small  teeth  together 
in  her  rage,  and  her  face  was  scarlet.  But  her  mind  was 
made  up.  If  Mr.  Sutton  counted  on  her  being  worse 
than  her  word  she  would  show  him  his  mistake. 

"I  shall  send  for  the  landlady,"  she  said;  and  beckon- 
ing to  a  stable-help  who  was  crossing  the  yard  with  a 
bucket,  "Fetch  Mrs.  Gilson,"  she  said.  "Tell  her " 

"One  moment!"  Mr.  Sutton  interposed  with  meek 
firmness.  "I  am  going  to  give  you  the  letter.  It  will 
explain  all,  and  I  hope  justify  my  conduct,  which  I 
cannot  believe  to  have  been  offensive." 

"That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,"  Henrietta  said  loftily. 
She  held  out  her  hand.  "The  letter,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  One  favour,  I  beg,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  that  dep- 
recated her  impatience.  He  waved  the  groom  out  of 
hearing.  "This  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you  or" — with  a 
return  of  dignity — "for  the  business  on  which  I  am 
here.  Do  me  the  favour  of  seeing  me  within  or  of  walk- 
ing a  few  yards  with  me.  There  is  a  seat  by  the  lake, 
if  you  will  not  admit  me  to  your  apartments." 

She  frowned  at  him.  But  she  saw  the  wisdom  of  con- 
cluding the  matter,  and  she  led  the  way  into  the  road  and 
turned  to  the  right.  Immediately,  however,  she  remem- 
bered that  the  Ambleside  road  would  lead  her  to  the  spot 
where  Captain  Clyne  had  taken  leave  of  her,  and  she 
turned  and  walked  the  other  way  until  she  came  to  the 
place  where  the  Troutbeck  lane  diverged.  There  she 
stood. 

"The  letter,  if  you  please,"  she  said.  She  spoke  with 
the  contemptuous  hardness  which  youth,  seldom  con- 
siderate of  others'  feelings,  is  prone  to  display. 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN  123 

He  held  it  an  instant  in  his  hand  as  if  he  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  it.  But  at  last,  with  a  dismal  look 
and  an  abject  sentence  or  two,  he  gave  it  up. 

"I  beg  you,  I  implore  you,"  he  muttered  as  she  took 
it,  "to  announce  no  hasty  decision.  To  believe  that  I 
am  something  more  and  better  than  you  think  me  now. 
And  that  ill  as  I  have  set  myself  before  you,  I  would 
fain  labour  to  show  myself  more — more  worthy !" 

The  words  were  so  strange,  his  manner  was  so  puzzling, 
that  they  pierced  the  armour  of  her  dislike.  She  paused, 
staring  at  him. 

"Worthy !"  she  exclaimed.    "Worthy  of  what?" 

"The  letter " 

"Yes,  the  letter  will  tell  me," 

And  with  a  haughty  air  she  broke  the  seal.  As  she 
read  she  turned  herself  from  him,  so  that  he  saw  little 
more  of  her  face  than  her  firmly  moulded  chin.  But 
when  she  had  carried  her  eyes  some  way  down  the  sheet 
he  noticed  that  her  hands  began  to  shake. 

"Henrietta,"  so  Captain  Clyne  began, — "for  to  add 
any  term  of  endearment  were  either  too  little  or  too 
much — I  have  thought  long  and  painfully,  as  becomes 
one  who  expected  to  be  by  this  time  your  husband,  on 
the  situation  in  which  you  have  placed  yourself  by  an 
escapade,  the  consequences  of  which,  whatever  action  be 
taken,  must  be  permanently  detrimental.  Of  these,  as 
they  touch  myself,  I  say  nothing,  the  object  of  these  lines 
being  to  indicate  a  way  by  which  I  trust  your  honour 
and  character  may  be  redeemed.  The  bearer,  whom  I 
know  for  a  man  of  merit  and  respectability,  saw  you 
by  chance  on  the  occasion  of  your  visit  to  my  house,  and, 
as  I  learned  by  a  word  indiscreetly  dropped,  admired 


124'  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

you.  He  has  been  admitted  to  the  secret  of  your  adven- 
ture, and  is  willing,  without  more  and  upon  my  repre- 
sentation of  the  facts  of  the  case,  to  make  you  his  wife 
and  to  give  you  the  shelter  of  his  name.  After  long 
thought  I  can  devise  no  better  course,  whereby,  innocent 
of  aught  but  folly,  as  I  believe  you  to  be,  the  honour 
of  the  family  can  be  preserved.  Still,  I  would  not  sug- 
gest or  advise  the  step  were  I  not  sure  that  Mr.  Sutton, 
though  beneath  us  by  extraction,  is  a  person  of  parts  and 
worth  in  whose  hands  your  future  will  be  safe,  while 
his  material  prosperity  shall  be  my  care.  I  have  advised 
him  to  take  such  opportunities  as  offer  of  commending 
himself  to  you  before  delivering  this  note.  Gladly  would 
I  counsel  you  to  take  the  advice  of  your  brother  and  his 
wife  were  I  not  aware  how  bitter  is  their  resentment 
and  how  complete  their  estrangement.  I,  on  the  other 

hand,  whose  right  to  advise  you  may  question But 

it  were  idle  to  say  more  than  that  I  forgive  you,  as  I 
hope  to  be  forgiven.  Nor  will  your  interests  ever  be 
indifferent  to 

"Your  kinsman, 
"ANTHONY  CLYNE." 

Mr.  Sutton  noted  the  growing  tremour  of  the  hands 
which  held  the  paper — he  could  hear  it  rustle.  And 
his  face,  usually  so  pallid,  flushed.  Into  the  greyness 
of  a  life  that  had  been  happier  if  the  chaplain  had  pos- 
sessed less  of  those  parts  for  which  Captain  Clyne  com- 
mended him,  had  burst  this  vision  of  a  bride,  young, 
beautiful,  and  brilliant ;  a  daughter  of  that  world  which 
thought  him  honoured  by  the  temporary  possession  of  a 
single  finger,  or  the  gift  of  a  careless  nod.  Who  could 
blame  him  if  he  succumbed  ?  Aladdin,  on  the  point  of 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN          125 

marriage  with  the  daughter  of  the  Sultan,  bent  to  no 
greater  temptation ;  nor  any  barber  or  calendar  of  them 
all,  when  on  the  verge  of  a  like  match.  He  had  seen 
Henrietta  once  only,  he  had  viewed  her  then  as  a  thing 
of  grace  and  refinement  meet  only  for  his  master.  At 
the  prospect  of  possessing  her,  such  scruples  as  rose  in 
his  mind  faded  quickly.  He  told  himself  that  he  would 
be  foolish  indeed  if  he  did  not  carry  the  matter  through 
with  a  bold  face ;  or  if  for  fear  of  a  few  hard  words,  or  a 
pouting  beauty,  he  yielded  up  the  opportunity  of  a  life. 

On  the  hill  he  had  proved  himself  equal  to  the  call. 
Not  so  now.  He  had  pictured  the  girl  taking  the  news 
in  many  ways,  in  scorn,  in  anger,  with  shallow  coquetry, 
or  in  dull  resignation.  But  he  had  never  anticipated 
the  way  in  which  she  did  take  it.  When  she  had  read 
the  letter  to  the  end  she  turned  her  back  on  him  and 
bent  her  head. 

"Oh!"  she  cried;  and  broke  into  weeping — not  pas- 
sionate nor  bitter,  he  was  prepared  for  that — but  the  soft 
and  helpless  weeping  of  a  broken  thing. 

That  they,  that  Anthony  Clyne,  above  all,  should  do 
this  to  her!  That  he  should  think  of  her  as  a  chattel 
to  be  handed  from  one  to  another,  a  girl  so  light  that 
all  men  were  the  same  to  her,  if  they  were  men !  That 
they,  that  he  should  hold  her  so  cheap,  deem  her  so 
smirched  by  what  had  passed,  misread  her  so  vilely  as 
to  think  that  she  had  fallen  to  this !  That  with  indif- 
ference she  would  give  herself  to  any  man,  no  matter 
to  whom,  if  she  could  that  way  keep  her  name  and  hold 
up  her  head ! 

It  hurt  her  horribly.  Nay,  for  the  time  it  broke  her 
down.  The  mid-day  coach  swept  by  to  the  inn  door, 
and  the  parson,  standing  beside  her,  ashamed  of  himself 


126  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

and  conscious  of  the  passengers'  curious  glances,  wished 
himself  anywhere  else.  But  she  was  wounded  too  sorely 
to  care  who  saw  or  who  heard;  and  she  wept  openly 
though  quietly  until  the  first  sharpness  of  the  pain  was 
blunted.  Then  he  thought,  as  her  sobbing  grew  less 
vehement,  that  his  time  was  come,  that  he  might  yet 
be  heard.  And  he  murmured  that  he  was  grieved,  he 
was  sorely  grieved. 

"So  am  I!"  she  said,  dabbing  her  eyes  with  her  wet 
handkerchief.  She  sobbed  out  the  words  so  humbly,  so 
weakly,  that  he  was  encouraged. 

"Then  may  I — may  I  return  presently?"  he  mur- 
mured, with  a  nervous  cough.  "You  must  stand  in 
need  of  advice?  And — and  by  some  one  near  you? 
When  you  are  more  composed  perhaps  ?  Yes.  Not  that 
there  is  any  hurry/'  he  added  quickly,  frightened  by  a 
movement  of  her  shoulders.  "Not  at  all.  I'll  not  say 
another  word  now!  By-and-by,  by-and-by,  dear  young 
lady,  you  will  be  more  composed.  To-morrow,  if  you 
prefer  it,  or  even  the  next  day.  I  shall  wait,  and  I  shall 
be  here." 

She  gave  her  eyes  a  last  dab  and  turned. 

"I  do  not  blame  you,"  she  said,  her  voice  broken  by 
a  sob.  "You  did  not  know  me.  But  you  must  go  back 
— you  must  go  back  to  him  at  once  and  tell  him  that  I 
— that  he  has  punished  me  as  sharply  as  he  could  wish." 
She  dabbed  her  face  again.  "I  do  not  know  what  I 

shall  think  of  him  presently,  but  I Oh,  oh !"  with 

a  fresh  burst  of  tears,  "that  he  should  do  this  to  me! — 
that  he  should  do  this !" 

He  did  not  know  her,  as  she  said;  and,  small  blame 
to  him,  he  misread  her.  Because  she  neither  stormed 
nor  sneered,  but  only  wept  in  this  heart-broken  fashion, 


CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN  127 

like  a  child  cowed  by  a  beating,  he  fancied  that  the  task 
before  him  was  not  above  his  powers.  He  thought  her 
plastic,  a  creature  easily  moulded;  and  that  already 
she  was  bending  herself  to  the  fate  proposed  for  her. 
And  in  soothing  tones,  for  he  was  genuinely  sorry  for 
her,  "There,  there,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "I 
know  it  is  something  hard.  It  is  hard.  But  in  a  little 
while,  a  very  little  while,  I  trust,  it  will  seem  less  hard. 
And  there  is  time  before  us.  Time  to  become  acquainted, 
time  to  gain  knowledge  of  one  another.  Plenty  of  time ! 
There  is  no  hurry. " 

She  lowered  her  handkerchief  from  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  him,  over  it,  as  if,  without  understanding,  she  thanked 
him  for  his  sympathy.  With  her  tear-washed  eyelashes 
and  rumpled  hair  and  neck-ribbon  she  looked  more 
childish,  she  seemed  to  him  less  formidable.  He  took 
heart  of  grace  to  go  on. 

"Captain  Clyne  shall  be  told  what  you  feel  about  it," 
he  said,  thinking  to  soothe  and  humour  her.  "He  shall 
be  told  all  in  good  time.  And  everything  I  can  say  and 
anything  I  can  do  to  lighten  the  burden  and  meet  your 
wishes " 

"You?" 

" 1  shall  do,  be  sure !" 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  his  feet,  and  he  spoke  ear- 
nestly. He  spoke,  to  do  him  justice,  with  feeling. 

"Your  happiness,"  he  said,  "will  be  the  one,  at  any 
rate  the  first,  and  main  object  of  my  life.  As  time 
goes  on  I  hope  and  believe  that  you  will  find  a  recom- 
pense in  the- service  and  devotion  of  a  life,  although  a 
humble  life;  and  always  I  will  be  patient.  I  will  wait, 
my  dear  young  lady,  in  good  hope." 

"Of  what?" 


128  CAPTAIN  CLYNE'S  PLAN 

The  tone  of  the  two  words  shook  Mr.  Sutton  un- 
pleasantly. He  reddened.  But  with  an  effort, 

"In  what  hope?"  he  answered,  embarrassed  by  the 
sudden  rigidity  of  her  face.  "In  the  hope,"  with  a 
feeble  smile,  "that  in  no  long  time — I  am  presumptuous, 
I  know — you  will  see  some  merit  in  me,  my  dear  young 
lady.  And  will  assent  to  my  wishes,  my  humble,  ardent 
wishes,  and  those  of  my  too-generous  patron." 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  now.  She  seemed  to 
tower  above  him  in  her  indignation. 

"Your  wishes,  you  miserable  little  man?"  she  cried, 
with  a  look  which  pierced  his  vanity  to  the  quick.  "They 
are  nothing  to  me !  Go  back  to  your  master !" 

And  before  he  could  rally  his  forces  or  speak,  she 
was  ^one  from  him  into  the  house.  He  heard  a  snigger 
behind  the  hedge,  but  by  the  time  he  had  climbed  the 
bank — with  a  crimson  face — there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen. 

He  stood  an  instant,  brooding,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
road. 

"A  common  man  would  give  up,"  he  muttered.  "But 
I  shall  not!  I  am  no  common  man.  I  shall  not  give 
up." 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  OLD  LOVE 

MR.  SDTTON  was  a  vain  man  and  sensitive,  and  though 
he  clung  to  hope,  Henrietta's  words  hurt  him  to  the 
quick.  The  name  of  Chaplain  was  growing  obsolete  at 
this  time ;  it  was  beginning  to  import  unpleasant  things. 
With  this  chaplain  in  particular  his  dependence  on  a 
patron  was  a  sore  point;  for  with  some  capacity,  he 
lacked,  and  knew  that  he  lacked,  that  strength  of  mind 
which  enables  a  man  to  hold  his  own,  be  his  position 
what  it  may.  For  an  hour,  writhing  under  the  reflection 
that  even  the  yokels  about  him  were  aware  of  his  dis- 
comfiture, he  was  cast  down  to  the  very  ground.  He 
was  inclined  to  withdraw  his  hand  and  let  the  dazzling 
vision  pass. 

Then  he  rallied  his  forces.  He  bethought  him  how 
abnormal  was  the  chance,  how  celestial  the  dream,  how 
sweet  the  rapture  of  possessing  the  charms  that  now 
flouted  him.  And  he  took  heart  of  grace.  He  raised  his 
head,  he  enlisted  in  the  cause  all  the  doggedness  of  his 
nature.  He  recalled  stories,  inaccurately  remembered, 
of  Swift  and  Voltaire  and  Eousseau,  all  dependants  who 
had  loved,  and  all  men  of  no  greater  capacity,  it  was 
possible,  than  himself.  What  slights  had  they  not  en- 
countered, what  scornful  looks,  and  biting  gibes !  But 
they  had  persisted,  having  less  in  their  favour  than  he 
had;  and  he  would  persist.  And  he  would  triumph  as 

129 


130  THE  OLD  LOVE 

they  had  triumphed.  What  matter  a  trifling  loss  of 
countenance  as  he  passed  by  the  coach-office,  or  a  burn- 
ing sensation  down  the  spine  when  those  whom  he  had 
left  tittered  behind  him  ?  He  laughed  best  who  laughed 
last 

For  such  a  chance  would  never,  could  never  fall  to  him 
again.  The  Caliph  of  Bagdad  was  dead,  and  princesses 
wedded  no  longer  with  calendars.  Was  he  to  toss  away 
the  one  ticket  which  the  lottery  of  life  had  dropped  in 
his  lap?  Surely  not.  And  for  scruples — he  felt  them 
no  longer.  The  girl's  stinging  words,  her  scornful  taunt, 
had  silenced  the  small  voice  that  on  his  way  hither  had 
pleaded  for  her;  urging  him  to  spare  her  loneliness,  to 
take  no  advantage  of  her  defenceless  position.  Bah! 
If  that  were  all,  she  could  defend  herself  well. 

So  Henrietta,  when  she  came  downstairs,  a  little 
paler  and  a  little  prouder,  and  with  the  devil,  that  is 
in  all  proud  women,  a  little  nearer  to  urging  her  on  some- 
thing, no  matter  what,  that  might  close  a  humiliating- 
scene,  was  not  long  in  discovering  a  humble  black  pres- 
ence that  by  turns  followed  and  evaded  her.  Mr.  Sutton 
did  not  venture  to  address  her  directly.  To  put  himself 
forward  was  not  his  role.  But  he  sought  to  commend 
himself  by  self-effacement;  or  at  the  most  by  such  meek 
services  as  opening  the  door  for  her  without  lifting  his 
eyes  above  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  or  placing  a  thing  within 
reach  before  she  learned  her  need  of  it.  Nevertheless, 
whenever  she  left  her  room  she  caught  sight  of  him; 
and  the  consciousness  that  he  was  watching  her,  that  his 
eyes  were  on  her  back,  that  if  her  gown  caught  in  a  nail 
of  the  floor  he  would  be  at  hand  to  release  it,  wore  on  her 
nerves.  She  tried  to  disregard  him,  she  tried  to  be 
indifferent  to  him.  But  there  he  always  was,  pale,  ob- 


THE  OLD  LOVE  131 

stinate,  cringing,  and  waiting.  And  so  great  is  the 
power  of  persistence,  that  she  began  to  fear  him. 

Between  his  insidious  court  and  the  dread  of  Mr. 
Hornyold's  gallantries  she  was  uncomfortable  as  well  as 
wretchedly  unhappy.  The  position  shamed  her.  She 
felt  that  it  was  her  own  conduct  which  she  had  to  thank 
for  their  pursuit;  and  for  Anthony  dyne's  more  cruel 
insult,  which  she  swore  she  would  never  forgive.  She 
knew  that  in  the  old  life,  within  the  fence  where  she 
had  been  reared,  no  one  had  ever  dared  to  take  a  liberty 
with  her  or  dreamed  of  venturing  on  a  freedom.  N"ow 
it  was  so  different.  So  different!  And  she  was  so 
lonely !  She  stood  fair  game  for  all.  Presently  even 
the  village  louts  would  nudge  one  another  when  she 
passed,  or  follow  her  in  the  hope  of  they  knew  not  what. 

Already,  indeed,  if  she  passed  the  threshold  she  had 
a  third  follower;  whose  motives  were  scarcely  less  of- 
fensive than  the  motives  of  the  other  two.  Mr.  Bishop 
had  been  away  for  nearly  a  week  scouring  the  roads  be- 
tween Cockermouth  and  Whitehaven,  and  Maryport  and 
Carlisle.  He  had  drawn,  as  he  hoped,  a  net  round  the 
quarry — if  it  had  not  already  escaped.  In  particular,  he 
had  made  sure  that  trusty  men — and  by  trusty  men  Mr. 
Bishop  meant  men  who  would  not  refuse  to  share  the 
reward  with  their  superiors — watched  the  most  likely 
places.  These  arrangements  had  taken  his  brown  tops 
and  sturdy  figure  far  afield:  so  that  scarce  a  pot-house 
in  all  that  country  was  now  ignorant  of  the  face  of  John 
Bishop  of  Bow  Street,  scarce  a  saddle-horse  was  un- 
versed in  his  weight.  Finally  he  had  returned  to  the 
centre  of  his  spider's  web,  and  rather  than  be  idle  he 
was  giving  himself  up  to  stealthy  observation  of  Hen- 
rietta. 


132  THE  OLD  LOVE 

For  he  had  one  point  in  common  with  Mr.  Sutton. 
While  the  Low  Wood  folk  exhausted  themselves  in  sur- 
mises and  believed  in  a  day  a  dozen  stories  of  the  girl 
who  had  dropped  so  strangely  among  them,  the  runner 
knew  who  she  was.  Perforce  he  had  been  taken  into 
confidence.  But  thereupon  his  experience  of  the  criminal 
kind  led  him  astray.  He  remembered  how  stubbornly 
she  had  refused  to  give  her  name,  to  give  information, 
to  give  anything ;  and  he  suspected  that  she  knew  where 
Walterson  lay  hid.  He  thought  it  more  than  likely  that 
she  was  still  in  relations  with  him.  A  girl  of  her  breed- 
ing, the  runner  argued,  does  not  give  up  all  for  a  ro- 
mantic stranger  unless  she  loves  him :  and  once  in  love, 
such  an  one  sticks  at  nothing.  So  he  too  haunted  her 
footsteps,  vanished  when  she  came,  and  appeared  when 
she  retreated ;  and  all  with  an  air  of  respect  which  mad- 
dened the  victim  and  puzzled  the  onlookers. 

But  for  this  she  had  been  able  to  spend  these  days  of 
loneliness  and  incertitude  in  wandering  among  the  hills. 
She  was  young  enough  to  feel  confinement  irksome,  and 
she  yearned  for  the  open  and  the  unexplored.  She  fan- 
cied that  she  would  find  relief  in  plunging  into  the 
depths  of  woods  where,  on  a  still  day,  the  leaves  floated 
singly  down  to  mingle  with  the  dying  ferns.  She  thought 
that  in  long  roaming,  with  loosened  hair  and  wind-swept 
cheeks,  over  Wansfell  Pike,  or  to  the  upper  world  of  the 
Kirkstone  or  the  Hog-back  beyond  Troutbeck,  she  might 
forget,  in  the  wilds  of  nature,  her  own  small  woes  and 
private  griefs.  At  least  on  the  sheep-trodden  heights 
there  would  be  no  one  to  reproach  her,  no  one  to  fling 
scorn  at  her. 

And  two  mornings  later  she  felt  that  she  must  go ; 
she  must  escape  from  the  eyes  that  everywhere  beset  her. 


THE  OLD  LOVE  133 

She  marked  down  Mr.  Bishop  in  the  road  before  the 
house,  and,  safe  from  him,  she  slipped  out  at  the  back, 
and,  almost  running,  climbed  the  path  that  led  to  the 
hills.  She  passed  through  the  wood  and  emerged  on  the 
shoulder;  and  drew  a  deep  breath,  rejoicing  in  her  free- 
dom. One  glance  at  the  lake  spread  out  below  her — 
and  something  still  and  sullen  under  a  grey  sky — and 
she  passed  on.  She  had  a  crust  in  her  pocket,  and  she 
would  remain  abroad  all  day — for  it  was  mild.  With 
the  evening  she  would  return  footsore  and  utterly  weary. 
And  she  would  sleep. 

She  was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  gate  of  Hinkson's 
farm  when  she  saw  coming  towards  her  the  last  man 
whom  she  wished  to  meet — Mr.  Hornyold.  He  was  walk- 
ing beside  his  nag,  with  the  rein  on  his  arm  and  his 
eyes  on  the  road.  His  hands  were  plunged  far  into  the 
fobs  of  his  breeches,  and  he  was  studying  something  so 
deeply  that  he  did  not  perceive  her. 

The  memory  of  their  last  meeting — on  that  very  spot 
— was  unpleasantly  fresh  in  Henrietta's  mind,  and  the 
impulse  to  escape  was  strong.  Hinkson's  gate  was  within 
reach  of  her  arm,  the  dog  was  asleep  in  the  kennel;  in 
a  twinkling  she  was  within  and  making  for  the  house. 
Any  pretence  would  do,  she  thought.  She  might  ask 
for  a  cup  of  water,  drink  it,  and  return  to  the  road.  By 
that  time  he  would  have  gone  on  his  way. 

She  knew  that  the  moment  she  had  passed  the  corner 
of  the  house  she  was  safe  from  observation.  And  seeing 
the  front  so  grim,  so  slatternly,  so  uninviting,  she  paused. 
Why  go  on  ?  Why  knock  ?  After  giving  Hornyold  time 
to  pass  she  might  slip  back  to  the  road  without  chal- 
lenging notice. 

She  would  have  done  this,  if  her  eyes,  as  she  hesi- 


134  THE  OLD  LOVE 

tated,  had  not  met  those  of  a  grimy,  frowsy  scarecrow 
who  seemed  to  he  playing  hide-and-seek  with  her  from 
the  shelter  of  the  decaying  bushes  that  stood  for  a  gar- 
den. She  saw  herself  discovered,  and  not  liking  the 
creature's  looks,  she  returned  to  her  first  plan.  She 
knocked  on  the  half-open  door,  and  receiving  no  answer, 
pushed  it  open  and  stepped  in — as  she  had  stepped  into 
cottages  in  her  own  village  scores  of  times. 

For  an  instant  the  aspect  of  the  interior  gave  her 
pause ;  so  bare,  with  the  northern  bareness,  so  squalid 
with  the  wretchedness  of  poverty,  was  the  great  dark 
kitchen.  Then,  telling  herself  that  it  was  only  the  sud- 
den transition  from  the  open  air  and  the  wide  view  that 
gave  a  sinister  look  to  the  place,  she  rapped  on  the  table. 

Some  one  moved  overhead,  crossed  the  floor  slowly, 
and  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  The  door  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase  was  ajar,  and  Henrietta  waited  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  it.  She  wondered  if  the  step  belonged  to 
the  girl  whose  bold  look  had  so  displeased  her;  or  to  a 
man — the  tread  seemed  too  heavy  for  a  woman.  Then 
the  door  was  pushed  open  a  few  inches  only,  a  foot  at 
most.  And  out  of  the  grey  gloom  of  the-  stairway  a 
face  looked  at  her,  and  eyes  met  her  eyes. 

The  face  was  Stewart's !    Walterson's ! 

She  did  not  cry  out.  She  stood  petrified,  silent,  star- 
ing. And  after  a  whispered  oath  wrung  from  him  by 
astonishment,  he  was  mute.  He  stood,  peering  at  her 
through  the  half -open  door ;  the  dangerous  instinct  which 
bade  him  spring  upon  her  and  secure  her  curbed  for 
the  moment  by  his  ignorance  of  the  conditions.  She 
might  have  others  with  her.  There  might  be  men  within 
hearing.  How  came  she  there?  And  above  all,  what 
cursed  folly  had  led  him  to  show  himself?  What  mad- 


THE  FACE  WAS  STEWART'S 


THE  OLD  LOVE  135 

ness  had  drawn  him  forth  before  he  knew  who  it  was, 
before  he  had  made  certain  that  it  was  Bess's  summons  ? 

It  was  she  who  broke  the  spell.  She  turned,  and  with 
no  uncertainty  or  backward  glance  she  went  out  slowly 
and  softly,  like  a  blind  person,  passed  round  the  house, 
and  gained  the  road.  Hornyold  had  gone  by  and  was 
out  of  sight ;  but  she  did  not  give  a  thought  to  him. 

The  shock  was  great.  She  was  white  to  the  lips.  By 
instinct  she  turned  homewards — wandering  abroad  on 
open  hills  was  far  from  her  thoughts  now.  But  even  so, 
when  she  had  gone  a  little  way  she  had  to  stand  and 
steady  herself  by  a  gate-post — her  knees  trembled  so 
violently  under  her.  For  by  intuition  she  knew  that  she 
had  escaped  a  great  danger.  The  wretched  creature 
cowering  in  the  gloom  of  the  stairway  had  not  moved 
hand  or  foot  after  his  eyes  met  hers;  but  something  in 
those  eyes,  a  gleam  wild  and  murderous,  recurred  to  her 
memory.  And  she  shuddered. 

Presently  the  first  effects  of  the  shock  abated  and  left 
her  free  to  think.  She  knew  then  that  a  grievous  thing 
had  happened,  and  a  thing  which  must  add  much  to  the 
weight  of  unhappiness  she  had  thought  intolerable  an 
hour  before.  To  begin,  the  near  presence  of  the  man 
revolted  her.  The  last  shred  of  the  romance  in  which 
she  had  garbed  him,  the  last  hue  of  glamour,  were  gone; 
and  in  the  creature  whom  she  had  espied  cowering  on  the 
stairs,  with  the  danger-signal  lurking  in  his  eyes,  she 
saw  her  old  lover  as  others  would  see  him.  How  she 
could  have  been  so  blind  as  to  invest  such  a  man  with 
virtue,  how  she  could  have  been  so  foolish  as  to  fancy 
she  loved  that,  passed  her  understanding  now !  Ay,  and 
filled  her  with  a  trembling  disgust  of  herself. 

Meantime,  that  was  the  beginning.    Beyond  that  she 


136  THE  OLD  LOVE 

foresaw  trouble  and  embarrassment  without  end.  If  he 
were  taken,  he  would  be  tried,  and  she  would  be  called  to 
the  witness  box,  and  the  story  of  her  infatuation  would 
be  told.  Nay,  she  would  have  to  tell  it  herself  in  face  of 
a  smiling  crowd ;  and  her  folly  would  be  in  all  the  jour- 
nals. True,  she  had  had  this  in  prospect  from  the  be- 
ginning, and,  thinking  of  it,  had  suffered  in  the  dark 
hours.  But  his  capture  had  then  been  vague  and  doubt- 
ful and  the  full  misery  of  her  exposure  had  not  struck 
her  as  it  struck  her  now,  with  the  picture  of  that  man 
on  the  stairs  fresh  in  her  mind.  To  have  disgraced  her- 
self for  that ! — for  that ! 

She  was  thinking  of  this  and  was  still  much  agitated 
when  she  came  to  the  spot  where  the  path  through  the 
wood  diverged  from  the  road.  There  with  his  hand  on 
the  wicket-gate,  unseen  until  she  was  close  upon  him, 
stood  Mr.  Bishop. 

He  raised  his  hat  and  stepped  aside,  as  if  the  meeting 
took  him  by  surprise,  as  if  he  had  not  been  watching 
her  face  through  a  screen  of  briars  for  the  last  thirty 
seconds.  But  that  due  paid  to  politeness,  the  runner's 
sharp  eyes  remained  glued  to  her  face. 

"Dear  me,  miss,"  he  said,  in  apparent  innocence, 
"nothing  has  happened,  I  hope !  You  don't  look  your- 
self !  I  hope,"  respectfully,  "that  nobody  has  been  rude 
to  you." 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  made  shift  to  murmur.  She 
turned  her  face  aside.  And  she  tried  to  go  by  him. 

He  let  her  go  through  the  gate,  but  he  kept  at  her 
side  and  scrutinised  her  face  with  side-long  glances.  He 
coughed. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  heard  bad  news,  miss?"  he 
said. 


THE  OLD  LOVE  137 

"No!" 

"Oh,  perhaps — seen  some  one  who  has  startled  you?" 

"I  have  told  you  it  is  nothing,"  she  answered  curtly. 
"Be  good  enough  to  leave  me." 

But  he  merely  paused  an  instant  in  obedience  to  the 
gesture  of  her  hand,  then  he  resumed  his  place  beside 
her.  In  the  tone  of  one  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
be  frank — 

"Look  here,  miss,"  he  said,  "it  is  better  to  come  to 
an  understanding  here,  where  there  is  nobody  to  listen. 
If  it  is  not  that  somebody  has  been  rude  to  you,  I'm 
clear  that  you  have  heard  news,  or  you  have  seen  some- 
body. And  it  is  my  business  to  know  the  one  or  the 
other." 

She  stopped. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  business !"  she  cried. 

He  made  a  wry  face,  and  spread  out  his  hands  in  ap- 
peal. 

"Won't  you  be  frank?"  he  replied.  "Come,  miss? 
What  is  the  use  of  fencing  with  me  ?  Be  frank !  I  want 
to  make  things  easy  for  all.  Lord,  miss,  you  are  not  the 
sort,  and  we  two  know  it,  that  suffers  in  these  things. 
You'll  come  out  all  right  if  you'll  be  frank.  It's  that 
I'm  working  towards ;  to  put  an  end  to  it,  and  the  sooner 
the  better.  You  can't — a  wife  and  four  children,  miss, 
and  a  radical  to  boot — you  can't  think  much  of  him! 
So  why  not  help  instead  of  hindering?" 

"You  are  impudent!"  Henrietta  said,  with  a  fine 
colour  in  her  cheeks.  "Be  good  enough  to  let  me  pass." 

"If  I  knew  where  he  was" — with  his  eyes  on  her  face 
— "I  could  make  all  easy.  All  done,  and  nothing  said, 
my  lady;  just  'from  communications  received,'  no 
names  given,  not  a  word  of  what  has  happened  up  here ! 


138  THE  OLD  LOVE 

Lord  bless  you,  what  do  they  care  in  London — and  it  is 
in  London  he'll  be  tried — what  happens  here!" 

"Let  me  pass!"  she  answered  breathlessly. 

He  was  so  warm  upon  the  scent  he  terrified  her. 

But  he  did  not  give  way. 

"Think,  miss,"  he  said  more  gravely.  "Think!  A 
wife  and  six  children !  Or  was  it  four  ?  Much  he  cared 
for  any  but  himself !  I'm  sure  I'm  shocked  when  I  think 
of  it !" 

"Be  silent!"  she  cried. 

"Much  he  cared  what  became  of  you!  While  Cap- 
tain Clyne,  if  you  were  to  consult  his  wishes,  miss,  I'm 
sure  he'd  saj " 

"I  do  not  care  what  he  would  say !"  she  retorted  pas- 
sionately, stung  at  last  beyond  reticence  or  endurance. 
"I  never  wish  to  hear  Captain  dyne's  name  again:  I 
hate  him ;  do  you  hear  ?  I  hate  him  !  Let  me  pass !" 

Then,  whether  he  would  or  no,  she  broke  from  him. 
She  hurried,  panting,  and  with  burning  cheeks,  down 
the  steep  path;  the  briars  clutching  unheeded  at  her 
skirts,  and  stones  rolling  under  her  feet.  He  followed 
at  her  heels,  admiring  her  spirit;  he  even  tried  to  en- 
gage her  again,  begging  her  to  stop  and  hear  him.  But 
she  only  pushed  on  the  faster,  and  presently  he  thought 
it  better  to  desist,  and  he  let  her  go. 

He  stood  and  wiped  his  brow,  looking  after  her. 

"Lord,  what  a  spirit  she  has !"  he  muttered.  "A  fine 
swelling  figure,  too,  and  a  sway  with  her  head  that  makes 
you  feel  small!  And  feet  that  nimble!  But  all  the 
same,  I'm  glad  she's  not  Mrs.  Bishop !  Take  my  word 
for  it,  she'll  be  another  Mother  Gilson — some  day." 

While  Henrietta  hurried  on  at  her  best  pace,  resent- 
ment giving  way  to  fear  and  doubt  and  a  hundred  per- 


THE  OLD  LOVE  139 

plexities.  Betray  the  man  she  could  not,  though  he  de- 
served nothing  at  her  hands.  She  was  no  informer,  nor 
would  become  one.  The  very  idea  was  repulsive  to  her. 
And  she  had  woven  about  this  man  the  fine  tissue  of  a 
girl's  first  fancy;  she  had  looked  to  be  his,  she  had  let 
him  kiss  her.  After  that,  vile  as  he  was,  vilely  as  he  had 
meant  by  her,  it  did  not  lie  with  her  to  betray  him  to 
death. 

But  his  presence  near  her  was  hateful  to  her,  was 
frightful,  was  almost  intolerable.  Not  a  day,  not  an 
hour,  but  she  must  expect  to  hear  of  his  capture,  and 
know  it  for  the  first  of  a  series  of  ordeals,  painful  and 
humiliating.  She  would  be  confronted  with  him,  she 
would  be  asked  if  she  knew  him,  she  would  bo  asked  this 
and  that;  and  she  would  have  to  speak,  would  have  to 
confess — to  those  clandestine  meetings,  to  that  kiss — 
while  he  listened,  while  all  listened.  The  tale  that  was 
known  as  yet  to  few  would  be  published  abroad.  Her 
folly  would  be  in  every  mouth,  in  every  journal.  The 
wife  and  the  four  children,  and  she,  the  silly,  silly  fool 
whom  this  mean  thing  had  captivated,  taking  her  as 
easily  as  any  doe  in  her  brother's  park — the  world  would 
ring  with  them ! 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 


MEANWHILE  the  man  whom  she  had  left  in  the  gloom 
of  the  staircase  waited.  The  sound  of  the  girl's  tread 
died  away  and  silence  followed.  But  she  might  be  tak- 
ing the  news,  she  might  be  gone  back  to  those  who  had 
sent  her.  He  knew  that  at  any  moment  the  party 
charged  with  his  arrest  might  appear,  and  that  in  a  few 
seconds  all  would  be  over.  And  the  suspense  was  in- 
tolerable. After  enduring  it  a  while  he  pushed  the  door 
open,  and  he  crept  across  the  floor  of  the  living-room. 
He  brought  his  haggard  face  near  the  casement  and 
peeped  cautiously  through  a  lower  corner.  He  saw 
nothing  to  the  purpose.  Nothing  moved  without,  except 
the  old  man,  whose  rags  fluttered  an  instant  among  the 
bushes  and  vanished  again.  Probably  he  was  dragging 
up  some  treasured  scrap  and  hiding  it  anew  with  as  little 
sane  purpose  and  as  much  instinct  as  the  dog  that 
buries  a  bone. 

The  man  with  the  price  on  his  head  stole  back  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  reassured  for  the  moment;  but  with 
his  heart  still  fluttering,  his  cheeks  still  bloodless.  He 
had  had  a  great  fright.  He  could  not  yet  tell  what  would 
come  of  it.  But  he  knew  that  in  the  form  of  the  girl 
whom  he  had  tricked  and  sought  to  ruin  he  had  seen  the 
gallows  very  near. 

He  had  not  quite  regained  the  staircase  when  the 
sound  of  a  foot  approaching  the  door  drove  him  to  shel- 

140 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  141 

ter  in  a  panic.  Bess  Hinkson  had  to  call  twice  before 
he  dared  to  descend  or  to  run  the  risk  of  a  second  mis- 
take. 

The  moment  she  saw  his  face  she  knew  that  something 
was  wrong. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter, lad?" 

"I've  seen  some  one,"  he  answered.  "Some  one  who 
knew  me!"  He  tried  to  smile,  but  the  smile  was  a 
spasm ;  and  suddenly  his  teeth  clicked  together.  "Knew 
me  by  G — d  !"  he  said. 

"Bishop?" 

"No,  but — some  one." 

Her  face  cleared. 

"Wfhat's  took  you?"  she  said.  "There  is  no  one  else 
here  who  knows  you." 

"The  girl." 

She  stared  at  him.  "The  girl?"  she  repeated — and 
the  master-note  in  her  voice  was  no  longer  fear,  but 
suspicion.  "  The  girl !  How  came  she  here  ?  And 
how,"  with  sudden  ferocity,  "came  she  to  see  you,  my 
lad?" 

"I  heard  her  below  and  thought  that  it  was  you." 

"But  how  came  she  here?" 

"I  don't  know/'  he  answered  sullenly,  "unless  she 
was  sent." 

"I  don't  believe  you,"  Bess  answered  coarsely.  And 
the  jealousy  of  her  gipsy  blood  sparkled  in  her  dark 
eyes.  "She  was  not  sent !  But  maybe  she  was  sent  for ! 
Maybe  she  was  sent  for !" 

"Who  was  there  I  could  send  for  her?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Nor  I !"  he  answered.    He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in 


142  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

disgust  at  her  folly.  To  him,  in  his  selfish  fear,  it 
seemed  incredible  folly. 

"But  you  talked  with  her?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"I  say,"  Bess  repeated  with  a  furious  look,  "you  did! 
You  talked  with  her  !  I  know  you  did !" 

"Have  your  own  way,  then,"  he  answered  despairing- 
ly, "though  may  heaven  strike  me  dead  if  there  was  a 
word !  But  she'll  he  talking  soon — and  they'll  be  here. 
And  she" — with  a  quavering,  passionate  rise  in  his 
voice — "she'll  hang  me!" 

"She'd  best  not!"  the  girl  replied,  with  a  gleam  of 
sharp  teeth.  "I  hate  her  as  it  is.  I  hate  her  now !  I'd 
like  to  kill  her !  But  then " 

"Then?"  he  retorted,  his  anger  rising  as  hers  sank. 
"What  is  the  use  of  then?  It's  now  is  the  point!  Curse 
3rou !  while  you  are  talking  about  hating  her,  and  what 
you'll  do,  I'll  be  taken !  They'll  be  here  and  I'll  hang !" 

"Steady,  steady,  lad,"  she  said.  The  fear  had  flown 
from  his  face  to  hers.  "Perhaps  she'll  not  tell." 

"Why  not  ?    Why'll  she  not  tell  ?" 

She  did  not  reply  that  love  might  close  the  girl's 
mouth.  But  she  knew  that  it  was  possible.  Instead : 

"Maybe  she'll  not,"  she  repeated.  "If  she  did  not 
come  on  purpose — and  then  they'd  be  here  by  now — it 
will  take  her  half  an  hour  to  go  back  to  the  inn,  and 
she'll  have  to  find  Bishop,  and  he'll  have  to  get  a  few 
together.  We've  an  hour  good,  and  if  it  were  night,  you 
might  be  clear  of  this  and  safe  at  Tyson's  in  ten  min- 
utes." 

"But  now?"  he  cried,  with  a  gesture  of  wrathful  im- 
patience. "It's  daylight,  and  maybe  the  house  is 
watched.  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?" 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  143 

"I  don't  know/'  she  said.  And  it  was  noticeable  that 
she  was  cool,  while  he  was  excited  to  the  verge  of  tears, 
and  was  not  a  mile  from  hysterics.  "  It  was  for  this  I've 
been  fooling  Tyson — to  get  a  safe  hiding-place.  But  if 
you  could  get  there,  I  doubt  if  he  is  quite  ripe.  I'd  like 
to  commit  him  a  bit  more  before  we  trust  him." 

"Then  why  play  the  fool  with  him?"  he  answered 
savagely. 

"Because  a  day  or  two  more  and  his  hiding-hole  may 
be  the  saving  of  you,"  she  retorted.  "Sho!"  shrugging 
her  shoulders  in  her  turn,  "the  game  is  not  played  to  an 
end  yet !  She'll  not  tell !  She  is  proud  as  horses,  and  if 
she  gives  you  up  she'll  have  to  swear  against  you.  And 
she'll  not  stomach  that,  the  little  pink  and  white  fool. 
She'll  keep  mum,  my  lad  !" 

The  hand  with  which  he  wiped  the  beads  of  sweat 
from  his  brow  shook. 

"But  it  she  does  tell?"  he  muttered.  "If  she  does 
tell?" 

She  did  not  answer  as  she  might  have  answered.  She 
did  not  remind  him  of  those  stories  of  hair-breadth  es- 
capes and  of  coolness  in  the  shadow  of  the  gallows, 
which,  as  much  as  his  plausible  enthusiasm,  had  won 
her  wild  heart.  She  did  not  hint  that  his  present  car- 
riage was  hardly  at  one  with  them.  For  when  women 
love,  their  eyes  are  slow  to  open,  and  this  man  had  re- 
vealed to  Bess  a  new  world — a  world  of  rarest  possibili- 
ties, a  world  in  which  she  and  her  like  were  to  have 
justice,  if  not  vengeance — a  world  in  which  the  mighty 
were  to  fall  from  their  seats,  and  the  poor  to  be  no  more 
flouted  by  squires'  wives  and  parsons'  daughters !  If 
she  did  not  still  think  him  all  golden,  if  the  feet  and 
even  the  legs  of  clay  were  beginning  to  be  visible,  there 


144  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

was  glamour  about  him  still.  The  splendid  plans,  the 
world-embracing  schemes  with  which  he  had  dazzled  her, 
had  shrunk  indeed  into  a  hole-and-corner  effort  to  save 
his  own  skin.  But  his  life  was  as  dear  to  her  as  to  him- 
self; and  doubtless,  by-and-by,  when  this  troublesome 
crisis  was  past,  the  vista  would  widen.  She  was 
content.  She  was  glad  to  put  full  knowledge  from 
her,  glad  of  any  pretext  to  divert  her  own  mind  and 
his. 

"Lord,  I  had  forgotten !"  she  cried,  after  a  gloomy 
pause,  "I've  a  letter!  There  was  one  at  last!"  She 
searched  in  her  clothes  for  it. 

"A  letter?"  he  cried,  and  stretched  out  a  shaking 
hand.  "  Good  lord,  girl,  why  did  you  not  say  so  before  ? 
This  may  change  all.  Thistlewood  may  know  a  way  to 
get  me  off.  Once  in  Lancashire,  in  the  crowd,  let  me 
have  a  hiding-place  and  I'm  safe !  And  Thistlewood — 
he  is  no  cur !  He  sticks  at  nothing !  He  is  a  good  man ! 
I  was  sure  he  would  do  something  if  I  could  get  a  word 
to  him !  Lord,  I  shall  cheat  them  yet !"  He  was  jubi- 
lant. 

He  ripped  the  letter  open.  His  eyes  raced  along  the 
lines.  The  girl,  who  could  scarcely  read,  watched  him 
with  admiration,  yet  with  a  sinking  heart.  The  letter 
might  save  him,  but  it  would  take  him  from  her. 

Something  between  a  groan  and  an  oath  broke  from 
him.  He  struck  the  paper  with  his  hand. 

"The  fool !"  he  cried.  "The  fools !  They  are  coming 
here !" 

"They?"    she    answered,    staring    in    astonishment. 

"Thistlewood,  Lunt — oh!"  with  a  violent  execration 
— "  God  knows  who !  Instead  of  getting  me  off  they  are 
bringing  the  hunt  on  me!  Lancashire  is  too  hot  for 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  145 

them,  so  they  are  coming  here  to  ruin  me.  And  I'm  to 
send  a  boat  for  them  to-morrow  night  to  Newby  Bridge. 
But,  I'll  not!  I'll  not!"  passionately.  "You  shall  not 
go!" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  dubiously. 

"After  all,"  she  said  presently,  "if  Thistlewood  is 
what  you  say  he  is " 

"He's  a  selfish  fool !    Thinking  only  of  himself !" 

"Still,  if  he  and  the  rest  are  men — it'll  not  be  one  man, 
nor  two,  nor  five  will  take  you — with  them  to  help  you  1" 

But  the  thought  gave  him  no  comfort. 

"Much  good  that  will  do!"  he  answered.  And  pas- 
sionately flinging  down  the  paper,  "I'll  not  have  them! 
They  must  fend  for  themselves." 

"Do  they  say  why  they  are  coming?"  she  asked  after  a 
pause. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  he  replied  querulously,  "because 
it's  too  hot  for  them  there !  One  of  the  justices,  Clyne, 
if  you  must  know " 

"Clyne!"  she  ejaculated  in  astonishment.  "Clyne 
again?" 

"Ay!" 

"The  man — you  took  the  girl  from?"  she  asked  in 
a  queer  voice. 

"The  same.  He's  the  deuce  down  there.  He'll  get  his 
house  burnt  over  his  head  one  of  these  nights !  He  has 
sworn  an  information  against  them,  and  they  swear 
they'll  have  their  revenge.  But  in  the  meantime  they 
must  needs  come  here  and  blow  the  gaff  on  me.  Fine 
revenge!"  with  scorn. 

"And  they  want  you  to  send  a  boat  for  them  to  Newby 
Bridge  ?" 

"Ay,  curse  them!    I  told  them  I  had  a  boat  I  could 


146  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

take  quietly,  and  come  down  the  lake  in  the  dark.  And 
they  say  the  boat  can  just  as  well  fetch  them." 

"To-morrow  night?" 

"Ay." 

"Well,  it  can  be  done,"  she  said  coolly,  "if  the  wind 
across  the  lake  holds.  I  can  steal  a  boat  as  I  planned 
for  you,  and  nobody  will  be  the  wiser.  There's  no  moon, 
and  the  nights  are  dark ;  and  who's  to  trace  them  from 
Newby  Bridge?  After  all,  it's  not  from  them  the  dan- 
ger will  come,  but  from  the  girl." 

He  groaned. 

"I  thought  you  were  sure  she  wouldn't  tell,"  he 
sneered. 

"Well,  she  has  not  told  yet,  or  they  had  been  here," 
Bess  answered.  "But  she  may  speak — by-and-by." 

"Curse  her!" 

"And  that  is  why  I  am  not  so  sorry  your  folks  are 
coming,"  she  continued,  with  a  queer  look  at  him.  "If 
they'll  help  us,  we'll  stop  her  mouth.  And  she'll  not 
speak  now,  nor  by-and-by." 

He  looked  up,  startled. 

"You  don't  mean — no!"  he  cried  sharply,  "I'll  not 
have  it." 

"Bless  her  pretty,  white  fingers !"  she  murmured. 

"I'll  not  have  her  hurt !"  he  repeated,  with  vehemence. 
"I've  done  her  harm  enough." 

"Not  so  much  harm  as  you  would  have  done  her,  if 
you'd  had  your  way !"  she  replied.  And  her  face  grew 
hard.  "But  now  she's  to  be  sacred,  is  she?  Her  lady- 
ship's pretty,  white  fingers  are  not  to  be  pinched — if 
you  swing  for  it!  Very  well!  It's  your  neck  will  be 
pulled,  not  mine." 

He  fidgeted  on  his  stool,  but  he  did  not  answer.    His 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  147 

eyes  roved  round  the  bare  miserable  room,  with  its  low 
ceiling,  its  deep  shadows,  and  its  squalor.  At  last : 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  querulously.  "Why 
can't  you  speak  plain?" 

"I  thought  I  had  spoken  plain  enough,"  she  replied. 
"But  if  she's  not  to  be  touched,  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"What  I  said — shut  her  mouth." 

He  shuddered  and  his  face,  already  sallow  from  long 
confinement,  grew  greyer. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'll  not  do  it." 

She  laughed  in  scorn  of  him. 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  she  said.  "I  would  get  her 
into  our  hands,  hold  her  fast,  stow  her  somewhere  where 
she'll  not  speak !  Maybe  in  Tyson's  hiding-hole.  She'll 
catch  a  cold,  but  what  of  that?  'Twill  be  no  worse  for 
her  than  for  you,  if  you've  to  go  there.  And  the  men 
may  be  a  bit  rough  with  her,"  Bess  continued,  with  a 
malignant  smile,  while  her  eyes  scrutinized  his  face, 
"I'll  not  forbid  them,  for  I  don't  love  her,  and  I'd  like 
well  to  see  her  brought  down  a  bit!  But  we'll  not 
squeeze  her  pretty  throat,  if  that  is  what  you  had  in 
your  mind." 

He  shivered. 

"I  wouldn't  trust  you!"  he  muttered. 

She  laughed  as  if  he  paid  her  a  compliment. 

"Wouldn't  you,  lad?"  she  said.  "Well,  perhaps  not. 
I'd  not  be  sorry  to  spoil  her  beauty.  But  the  men — men 
are  such  fools — '11  be  rather  for  kissing  than  killing !" 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  like  it,"  he  muttered. 

"You'll  like  hanging  less !"  she  retorted. 

He  felt,  he  knew  that  he  played  a  sorry  part.  But  i  t 
was  not  he  who  had  brought  Henrietta  to  the  house,  it 


148  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

was  fate.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  she  had  seen  him; 
it  was  his  misfortune.  Could  he  be  expected  to  sur- 
render his  life  to  spare  her  a  little  fright,  a  trifling  in- 
convenience, an  inconsiderable  risk?  Why  should  he? 
Would  she  do  it  for  him  ?  On  the  contrary,  he  recalled 
the.  look  of  horror  which  she  had  bent  on  him ;  she  who 
had  so  lately  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  had  listened 
to  his  blandishments,  had  thought  him  perfect.  He  was 
vain,  and  that  hardened  him. 

"I  don't  see  how  you'll  do  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  Bess  answered.  "Or  rather,  do 
what  I  tell  you — and  the  bird  will  come  to  the  whistle, 
my  lad !" 

"What'll  you  do?" 

She  told  him,  and  when  she  had  told  him  she  put  be- 
fore him  pen  and  ink  and  paper;  the  pen  and  ink  and 
paper  which  had  been  obtained  that  he  might  write  to 
Thistlewood.  But  when  it  came  to  details  and  he  knew 
what  he  was  to  write  and  what  lure  to  throw  out,  he 
flung  the  pen  from  him.  He  told  her  angrily  that  he 
would  not  do  it.  After  all,  Henrietta  had  believed  in 
him,  had  trusted  him,  had  given  up  all  for  him. 

"I'll  not  do  it,"  he  repeated.  "I'll  not  do  it!  You 
want  to  do  the  girl  a  mischief !" 

She  flared  up  at  that. 

"Then  you'll  hang!"  she  cried  brutally,  hurling  the 
words  at  him.  "And,  thank  God,  it  will  be  she  will 
hang  you!  Why,  you  fool,"  she  continued  vehemently, 
"you  were  for  doing  her  a  worse  turn,  just  to  please 
yourself!  And  not  a  scruple!" 

"No  matter,"  he  answered,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  looking  sullenly  before  him.  "I'll  not  do 
it!" 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  149 

Her  face  was  dark  with  anger,  and  cruel.  What  is 
more  cruel  than  jealousy? 

"And  that  is  your  last  word?"  she  cried. 

He  scowled  at  the  table,  aware  in  his  heart  that  he 
would  yield.  For  he  knew — and  he  resented  the  knowl- 
edge— that  he  and  Bess  were  changing  places;  that  the 
upper  hand  which  knowledge  and  experience  and  a  fluent 
tongue  had  given  him  was  passing  to  her  for  whom 
Nature  intended  it.  The  weak  will  was  yielding,  the 
strong  will  was  asserting  itself.  And  she  knew  it  also ; 
and  in  her  jealousy  she  was  no  longer  for  humouring 
him.  Brusquely  she  pushed  together  the  pen  and  ink 
and  paper. 

"Very  good,"  she  said.  "If  that  is  your  last  word,  be 
it  so ;  I've  done !" 

But  "Wait!"  he  protested  feebly.  "You  are  so 
hasty." 

"Wait?"  she  retorted.  "What  for?  What  is  the  use ? 
Are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

He  fidgeted  on  his  stool. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  muttered  at  last.  "Curse  you,  you 
won't  listen  to  what  a  man  says." 

"You  are  going  to  do  it?" 

He  nodded. 

"Then  why  not  say  so  at  once?"  shj  answered.  "There, 
my  lad,"  she  continued,  thrusting  the  writing  things 
before  him,  "short  and  sweet,  as  nobody  knows  better 
how  to  do  it  than  yourself !  Half  a  dozen  lines  will  do 
the  trick  as  well  as  twenty." 

To  his  credit  be  it  said,  he  threw  down  the  pen  more 
than  once,  sickened  by  the  task  which  she  set  him.  But 
she  chid,  she  cajoled,  she  coaxed  him ;  and  grimly  added 
the  pains  she  was  at  to  the  account  of  her  rival.  In  the 


150  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

end,  after  a  debate  upon  time  and  place,  in  which  he  was 
all  for  procrastination — feeling  as  if  in  some  way  that 
salved  his  conscience — the  letter  was  written  and  placed 
in  her  hands. 

Then  "What  sort  is  this  Thistlewood  ?"  she  asked. 
"A  gentleman  ?" 

"You  wouldn't  know,  one  way  or  the  other,"  he  an- 
swered, with  ill-humour. 

"Maybe  not,"  she  replied;  "but  would  you  call  him 
one?" 

"He's  been  an  officer,  and  he's  been  to  America,  and 
he's  been  to  France.  I  don't  suppose,"  looking  round 
him  with  currish  scorn,  "that  he's  ever  been  in  such  a 
hole  as  this!" 

"But  he's  in  hiding.    Is  he  married?" 

"Yes." 

She  frowned  as  if  the  news  were  unwelcome. 

"Ah!"  she  muttered.  And  then,  "What  of  the 
others?" 

"Giles  and  Lunt " 

"Ay." 

"There's  not  much  they'd  stick  at,"  he  replied.  "They 
are  low  brutes;  but  they  are  useful.  We've  to  do  with 
all  sorts  in  this  business." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Ay!  Didn't  you  tell  me  the  other  day,  there  was 
no  one  so  mean,  if  we  succeed,  he  may  not  rise  to  the 
top?  nor  any  one  so  great  he  may  not  fall  to  the  bot- 
tom?" 

"Well?" 

"That's  what  I  like  about  it." 

"Well,  it's  true,  anyway;  Henriot" — he  was  on  a 


A  JEALOUS  WOMAN  151 

favourite  topic  and  thought  to  reinstate  himself  by 
long  words — "Henriot,  who  was  but  a  poor  pike-keeper, 
came  to  be  general  of  the  National  Guard  and  Master 
of  Paris.  Tallien,  the  son  of  a  footman,  ruled  a  province. 
Ney — you've  heard  of  Ney? — who  began  as  a  cooper, 
was  shot  as  a  Marshal  with  a  score  of  orders  on  his  breast 
and  as  much  thought  of  as  a  king !  That's  what  happens 
if  we  succeed." 

"And  some  came  down?"  she  said,  smacking  her  lips. 

"Plenty." 

"And  women  too?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  wish  I  had  been  there." 

Not  then,  but  later,  when  the  letter  had  passed  into 
her  hands,  he  fancied  that  he  saw  the  drift  of  her  ques- 
tions. And  he  had  qualms,  for  he  was  not  wholly  bad. 
He  was  not  cruel,  and  the  thought  of  Henrietta's  fate  if 
she  fell  into  the  snare  terrified  him.  True,  Thistlewood, 
dark  and  saturnine,  a  man  capable  of  heroism  as  well 
as  of  crime,  was  something  of  a  gentleman.  He  might 
decline  to  go  far.  He  might  elect  to  take  the  girl's  part. 
But  Giles  and  Lunt  were  men  of  a  low  type,  coarse  and 
brutish,  apt  for  any  villainy ;  men  who,  drawn  from  the 
slums  of  Spitalfields,  had  tried  many  things  before  they 
took  up  with  conspiracy,  or  dubbed  themselves  patriots. 
To  such,  the  life  of  a  spy  was  no  more  than  the  life  of  a 
dog :  and  the  girl's  sex,  in  place  of  protecting  her,  might 
the  more  expose  her  to  their  ruthlessness.  If  she  fell 
into  their  hands,  and  Bess,  with  her  infernal  jealousy 
and  her  furious  hatred  of  the  class  above  her,  egged  them 
on,  swearing  that  if  Henrietta  had  not  already  informed, 
she  might  inform — he  shuddered  to  think  of  the  issue. 
He  shuddered  to  think  of  what  they  might  be  capable. 


152  A  JEALOUS  WOMAN 

He  remembered  the  things  that  had  been  done  by  such 
men  in  France :  things  remembered  then,  forgotten  now. 
And  he.  shuddered  anew,  knowing  himself  to  be  a  poor 
weak  thing,  of  no  account  against  odds. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   LETTER 

WE  left  Mr.  Bishop  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
woodland  track  and  following  Henrietta  with  his  eyes. 
He  had  suspected  the  girl  before;  his  suspicions  were 
now  grown  to  certainties.  Her  agitation,  her  alarm  on 
meeting  him,  her  refusal  to  parley,  her  anxiety  to  be 
gone,  all — and  his  keen  eyes  had  missed  no  item  of  her 
disorder — all  pointed  to  one  thing,  to  her  knowledge 
of  her  lover's  hiding-place.  Doubtless  she  had  been  to 
visit  him.  Probably  she  had  just  left  him. 

"But  she's  game,  she's  very  game,"  the  runner  mut- 
tered sagely.  "It's  breed  does  it."  And  plucking  a  scrap 
of  green  stuff  from  a  briar  he  chewed  it  thoughtfully, 
with  his  eyes  on  the  spot  where  he  had  lost  the  last  wave 
of  her  skirt. 

Presently  he  faced  about.  "Now  where  is  he?"  he 
asked  himself.  He  scanned  the  path  by  which  she  had 
descended,  the  briars,  the  thorns,  the  under-growth. 
"There's  hiding  here,"  he  thought;  "but  the  nights  are 
cold,  and  it'd  kill  him  in  the  open.  And  she'd  been  on 
the  hill.  In  a  shepherd's  hut  ?  Possibly ;  and  it's  a  pity 
I  was  not  after  her  sooner.  But  we  searched  the  huts. 
Then  there's  Troutbeck?  And  the  farms?  But  how'd 
he  know  any  one  here?  Still,  I'll  walk  up  and  look 
about  me.  Strikes  me  we've  been  looking  wide  and 
he's  under  our  noses — many  a  hare  escapes  the  hounds 
that  way." 

153 


154!  THE  LETTER 

He  retraced  his  steps  to  the  road,  and  strolled  up  the 
hill.  His  air  was  careless,  but  his  eye  took  note  of 
everything ;  and  when  he  came  to  the  gate  of  Starvecrow 
Farm  he  stood  and  looked  over  it.  The  bare  and  gloomy 
aspect  of  the  house  and  the  wide  view  it  commanded 
impressed  him.  "I  don't  wonder  they  keep  a  dog,"  he 
thought.  "A  lonely  place  as  ever  I  saw.  Sort  of  house 
the  pedlar's  murdered  in!  Regular  Red  Barn!  But 
that  black-eyed  wench  the  doctor  is  gallivanting  after 
comes  from  here.  And  if  all's  true  he's  in  and  out  night 
and  day.  So  the  other  is  not  like  to  be  here." 

Still,  when  he  had  walked  a  few  yards  farther  he 
halted.  He  took  another  look  over  the  fence.  He  noted 
the  few  sombre  pines  that  masked  the  gaunt  gable-end, 
and  from  them  his  eye  travelled  to  the  ragged  garden. 
A  while  he  gazed  placidly,  the  bit  of  green  stuff  in  his 
mouth.  Then  he  stiffened,  pointing  like  a  game  dog. 
Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  his  hand  went  to  the 
pocket  in  his  skirts,  where  he  carried  the  "barker"  with- 
out which  he  never  stirred. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  breast-high  wall,  not  six 
paces  from  him,  a  man  was  crouching  low,  trying  to 
hide  behind  a  bush. 

Mr.  Bishop  had  a  stout  heart.  He  had  taken  many 
a  man  in  the  midst  of  his  cronies  in  the  dark  courts 
about  St.  Giles's ;  and  with  six  hundred  guineas  in  view 
it  was  not  a  small  danger  that  would  turn  him.  Yet  he 
was  alone,  and  his  heart  beat  a  little  quicker  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, with  his  eyes  glued  to  the  bush,  to  climb  the  wall. 
The  man  he  was  going  to  take  had  the  rope  about  his 
neck — he  would  reck  little  of  taking  another  life.  And 
he  might  have  backers.  Possibly,  too,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  silence  of  this  hill-side — so  different  from 


THE  LETTER  155 

the  crowded  alleys  in  which  he  commonly  worked — that 
intimidated  the  officer. 

Yet  he  did  not  flinch.  He  was  of  the  true  bull-dog 
breed.  He,  no  more  than  my  Lord  Liverpool  and  my 
Lord  Castlereagh,  was  to  be  scared  by  uncertain  dangers, 
or  by  the  fear  of  those  over  whom  he  was  set.  He  ad- 
vanced slowly,  and  was  not  more  than  four  yards  from 
the  bush,  he  was  even  poising  himself  to  leap  on  his 
quarry,  when  the  man  who  was  hiding  rose  to  his  feet. 

Bishop  swore.  And  some  one  behind  him  chuckled. 
He  turned  as  if  he  had  been  pricked.  And  his  face  was 
red. 

"Going  to  take  old  Hinkson?"  laughed  Tyson,  who 
had  come  up  unseen,  and  been  watching  his  movements. 

"I  wanted  a  word  with  him,"  the  runner  muttered. 
He  tried  to  speak  as  if  he  were  not  embarrassed. 

"So  I  see,"  Tyson  answered,  and  pointing  with  his 
finger  to  the  pistol,  he  laughed. 

Mr.  Bishop,  with  his  face  a  fine  port-wine  colour, 
lowered  the  weapon  out  of  sight.  Then  he  laughed,  but 
feebly. 

"Has  he  any  sense?"  he  asked,  looking  with  disgust 
at  the  frowsy  old  creature,  who  mopping  and  mowing  at 
him  was  holding  out  a  crooked  claw. 

"Sense  enough  to  beg  for  a  penny,"  Tyson  answered. 

"He  knows  enough  for  that?" 

"He'd  sell  his  soul  for  a  shilling." 

The  runner  hooked  out  a  half-penny — a  good  fat 
copper  coin,  to  the  starveling  bronze  of  these  days  as 
Daniel  Lambert  to  a  dandy.  He  put  it  in  the  old  scare- 
crow's hand. 

"Here's  for  trespass,"  he  said,  and  turning  his  back 
on  him  he  recrossed  the  wall. 


156  THE  LETTER 

"That'll  stop  his  mouth,"  Tyson  grinned.  "But  what 
are  you  going  to  give  me  to  stop  mine  ?" 

Bishop  laughed  on  the  wrong  side  of  his  face. 

"A  bone  and  a  jorum  whenever  you'll  come  and  take 
it,"  he  said. 

"Done  with  you,"  the  doctor  replied.  "Some  day, 
when  that  old  beldame,  mother  Gilson,  is  out,  I'll  claim 
it.  But  if  JOVL  think,"  he  continued,  "that  your  man 
is  this  side  of  the  hill  you  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Bishop. 
I'm  up  and  down  this  road  day  and  night,  and  he'd  be 
very  clever  if  he  kept  out  of  my  sight." 

"Ay?" 

"You  may  take  my  word  for  that.  I'll  lay  you  a  dozen 
wherever  he  is,  he's  not  this  side." 

The  runner  nodded.  At  this  moment  he  was  a  little 
out  of  conceit  with  himself,  and  he  thought  that  the 
other  might  be  right.  Besides,  he  might  spend  a  week 
going  from  farm  to  farm,  and  shed  to  shed  and  be  no 
wiser  at  the  end  of  it.  Yet,  the  girl  knew,  he  was  con- 
vinced ;  and  after  all,  that  was  his  way  to  it.  She  knew, 
and  he'd  to  her  again  and  have  it  out  of  her  one  way 
or  another.  And  if  she  would  not  speak,  he  would 
shadow  her;  he  would  follow  her  hour  by  hour  and 
minute  by  minute.  Sooner  or  later  she  would  be  sure 
to  try  to  see  her  man,  and  he  would  nab  them  both. 
There  were  no  two  ways  about  it.  There  was  only  one 
way.  An  old  hand  should  have  known  better  than  to 
go  wasting  time  in  random  searchings. 

He  returned  to  the  inn,  more  fixed  than  ever  in  his 
notion.  With  an  impassive  face  he  told  Mrs.  Gilson  that 
he  must  see  the  young  lady. 

"She's  come  in,  I  suppose?"  he  added. 

"Ay,  she's  come  in." 


THE  LETTER  157 

"Well,  you'll  please  to  tell  her  I  must  see  her." 

"I  fancy  must  will  be  your  master,"  Mrs.  Gilson  re- 
plied, with  her  usual  point.  "But  I'll  tell  her."  And 
she  went  upstairs. 

Henrietta  was  seated  at  the  window  with  her  back  to 
the  door.  She  did  not  turn. 

"Here's  the  Bow-Street  man,"  Mrs.  Gilson  said,  with- 
out ceremony.  "Wants  to  know  if  he  can  see  you.  Shall 
I  tell  him  yes,  or  no,  young  lady?" 

"No,  if  you  please,"  Henrietta  answered,  with  a 
shiver. 

Mrs.  Gilson  went  down. 

"She  says  'No,  on  no  account/ "  she  announced, 
"unless  you've  got  a  warrant.  Her  room's  her  room, 
she  says,  and  she'll  none  of  you." 

"Hoity-toity!" 

"That's  what  she  said,"  Mrs.  Gilson  repeated  without 
a  blush.  "And  for  my  part  I  don't  see  why  she's  to 
be  persecuted.  What  with  you  and  that  sneaking  par- 
son, who's  for  ever  at  her  skirts,  and  another  that  shall 
be  nameless " 

"Just  so!"  said  Bishop,  nodding. 

But  whereas  he  meant  Walterson,  the  good  woman 
meant  Mr.  Hornyold. 

" her  life's  not  her  own !"  the  landlady  ended. 

"Well,  she's  to  be  brought  up  next  Thursday,"  the 
runner  replied  in  dudgeon.  "And  she'll  have  to  see 
me  then."  And  he  took  a  seat  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
more  firmly  determined  than  ever  that  the  girl  should 
not  give  him  the  slip  again  a  second  time.  "He's  here," 
he  thought.  "He's  not  a  mile  from  me,  I'll  stake  my 
soul  on  it !  And  before  Thursday  it's  odds  she'll  need 
to  see  him,  and  111  nab  them !"  And  he  began  to  think 


158  THE  LETTER 

out  various  ways  of  giving  her  something  which  she 
would  wish  to  communicate. 

Meanwhile  Henrietta,  seated  at  her  window  in  the 
south  gable,  gazed  dolefully  out;  on  the  grey  expanse  of 
water,  which  she  was  beginning  to  hate,  on  the  lofty 
serrated  ridge,  which  must  ever  recall  humiliating  mem- 
ories, on  the  snow-clad  peaks  that  symbolised  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  life.  She  would  not  weep,  but  her  lip  quiv- 
ered. And  oh,  she  thought,  it  was  a  cruel  punishment 
for  that  which  she  had  done.  In  the  present  she  was 
utterly  alone :  in  the  future  it  would  be  no  better.  And 
yet  if  that  were  all,  if  loneliness  were  all,  she  could  bear 
it.  She  could  make  up  her  mind  to  it.  But  if  not  to- 
day, to-morrow,  and  if  not  to-morrow,  the  day  after, 
the  man  would  be  taken.  And  then  she  would  have  to 
stand  forth  and  tell  her  shameful  tale,  and  all  the  world, 
her  world,  would  learn  with  derision  what  a  fool  she  had 
been,  for  what  a  creature  she  had  been  ready  to  give  up 
all,  what  dross  that  was  which  she  had  taken  for  gold ! 
And  that  which  had  been  romantic  would  be  ridiculous. 

Beside  this  aching  dread  the  insult  which  Captain 
Clyne  had  put  upon  her  lost  some  of  its  sting.  Yet  it 
smarted  at  times  and  rankled,  driving  her  into  passing 
rages.  She  had  wronged  him,  yet,  strange  to  say,  she 
hated  to  think  that  she  had  lost  his  esteem.  And  per- 
haps for  this  reason,  perhaps  because  he  had  shown  him- 
self less  inhuman  at  the  outset  than  her  family,  his 
treatment  hurt  her  to  a  point  she  had  not  anticipated, 
nor  could  understand. 

The  one  drop  of  comfort  in  her  cup  sprang  from  a 
source  as  unlikely  as  the  rock  which  Moses  struck.  It 
came  from  the  flinty  bosom  of  Mrs.  Gilson.  Not  that 
the  landlady  was  outwardly  kind ;  but  she  was  brusquely 


THE  LETTER  159 

and  gruffly  inattentive,  trusting  the  girl  and  leaving  her 
to  herself.  And  in  secret  Henrietta  appreciated  this. 
She  began  to  feel  a  dependence  on  the  woman  whom  she 
had  once  dubbed  an  odious  and  a  hateful  thing.  She 
read  kindness  between  the  lines  of  her  harsh  visage,  and 
solicitude  in  the  eye  that  scorned  to  notice  her.  She 
ceased  to  tremble  when  the  voice  which  flung  panic 
through  the  Low  Wood  came  girding  up  the  stairs.  And 
though  no  word  of  acknowledgement  passed  her  lips, 
she  was  conscious  that  in  other  and  smoother  hands  she 
might  have  fared  worse. 

The  open  sympathy  of  Modest  Ann  was  less  welcome. 
It  was  even  a  terrible  plague  at  times.  For  the  waiting- 
maid  never  came  into  the  girl's  presence  without  full 
eyes  and  a  sigh,  never  looked  at  her  save  as  the  kind- 
hearted  look  at  lambs  that  are  faring  to  the  butcher, 
never  left  her  without  a  gesture  that  challenged  Heaven's 
pity.  Ann,  indeed,  saw  in  the  young  lady  the  martyr  of 
love.  She  viewed  her  as  a  sharer  in  her  own  misfor- 
tunes; and  though  she  was  forty  and  the  girl  nineteen, 
she  found  in  her  echoes  of  her  own  heart-throbs.  There 
was  humour  in  this,  and,  for  some,  a  touch  of  the  pa- 
thetic; but  not  for  Henrietta,  who  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  ridiculous  and  no  liking  for  pity.  In  her  ordinary 
spirits  she  would  have  either  laughed  at  the  woman  or 
rated  her.  Depressed  as  she  was,  she  bore  with  her  none 
too  well. 

Yet  Ann  was  honestly  devoted  to  her  heroine,  and  con- 
tinually dreamed  of  some  romantic  service — such  as  the 
waiting-maid  in  a  chap-book  performs  for  her  mistress. 
Given  the  occasion,  she  would  have  risen  to  it,  and  would 
have  cut  off  her  hand  before  she  betrayed  the  girl's 
secrets.  But  her  buxom  form  and  square,  stolid  face  did 


160  THE  LETTER 

not  commend  her;  they  were  at  odds  with  romance. 
And  Henrietta  did  not  more  than  suffer  her,  until  the 
afternoon  of  this  day,  when  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that 
she  could  suffer  her  no  longer. 

For  Ann,  coming  in  with  wood  for  the  fire,  lingered 
behind  her  in  a  way  to  try  a  saint.  Her  sighs  filled  the 
air,  they  were  like  a  furnace ;  until  Henrietta  turned  her 
head  and  asked  impatiently  if  she  wanted  something. 

"Nothing,  miss,  nothing,"  the  woman  answered.  But 
she  gave  the  lie  to  her  words  by  laying  her  finger  on  her 
lip  and  winking.  At  the  same  time  she  sought  for 
something  in  an  under-pocket. 

Henrietta  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Nothing!"  she  repeated.    "Then  what  do  you " 

"Nothing,  misa,"  Ann  rejoined  loudly.  "I'm  to  make 
up  the  fire."  But  she  still  sought  and  still  made  eyes, 
and  at  last,  with  an  exaggeration  of  mystery,  found  what 
she  wanted.  She  slipped  a  letter  into  Henrietta's  hand. 
"Not  a  word,  miss,"1  she  breathed,  with  a  face  of  raptur- 
ous enjoyment.  "  Take  it,  miss  !  Lor' !"  she  continued 
in  the  same  tone  of  subdued  enthusiasm,  "I'd  die  for 
you,  let  alone  do  this !  Even  missus  should  not  wring 
it  from  me  with  wild  horses !" 

Henrietta  hesitated. 

"Who  gave  it  you?"  she  whispered.  "I  don't  wish" 
— she  drew  back — "I  don't  wish  to  receive  anything  un- 
less I  know  who  sends  it." 

"You  read  it, "* Ann  answered  in  an  ecstasy  of  benevo- 
lence. "It's  all  right,  trust  me  for  that!  Bless  your 
heart,  it  comes  from  the  right  place.  As  you  will  see 
when  you  open  it!"  And  with  absurd  precaution  she 
tip-toed  to  the  fire-place,  took  up  her  wood-basket, 
banged  a  log  on  the  dogs,  and  went  out. 


THE  LETTER  161 

Henrietta  waited  with  the  letter  hidden  in  her  hand 
until  the  door  closed.  Then  she  looked  at  the  paper 
and  grew  pale,  and  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  Alas ! 
she  knew  the  handwriting.  She  knew,  whether  there 
was  a  right  place  or  not,  that  this  came  from  the  wrong. 

"Shall  I  open  it?"  she  asked  herself.  "Shall  I  open 
it?" 

A  fortnight  before  she  had  opened  it  without  a  thought 
of  prudence,  without  a  glance  at  the  consequences.  But 
a  fortnight,  and  such  a  fortnight,  had  taught  her  much. 
And  to-day  she  paused.  She  eyed  the  coarse  paper 
askance — with  repugnance,  with  loathing.  True,  it  could 
no  longer  harm  her.  She  had  seen  the  man  as  he  was, 
stripped  of  his  disguises.  She  had  read  in  his  face  his 
meanness,  his  falseness,  his  cowardice.  And  henceforth 
his  charms  and  cajoleries,  his  sweet  words  and  lying 
looks  were  not  for  her.  But  she  had  to  think  what 
might  be  in  this  letter,  and  what  might  come  of  it,  and 
what  she  should  do.  She  might  burn  it  unread — and 
perhaps  that  were  the  safer  course.  Or  she  might  hand 
it  to  the  Bow  Street  runner,  or  she  might  open  it  and 
read  it. 

Which  should  she  do? 

One  course  she  rejected  without  much  thought.  To 
hand  the  letter  to  Bishop  might  be  to  betray  the  man 
to  Bishop.  And  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  betray 
the  man. 

Should  she  burn  it? 

Her  reason  whispered  that  that  was  the  right,  that 
that  was  the  wise  course.  But  then  she  would  never 
know  what  was  in  the  letter ;  and  she  was  a  woman  and 
curious.  And  reason,  quickly  veering,  suggested  that 
to  burn  it  was  to  incur  unknown  risks  and  contingencies. 


162  THE   LETTER 

It  might  be  equivalent  to  giving  the  man  up.  It  might 
— in  a  word,  it  opened  a  world  of  possibilities. 

And  after  all  she  could  still  burn  the  letter  when  she 
had  read  it.  She  would  know  then  what  she  was  doing. 
And  what  danger  could  she  incur,  seeing  that  she  was 
proof  against  the  man's  lying  tongue,  and  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  contact  with  him  ? 

She  made  up  her  mind.  And  roughly,  hating  the 
task  after  a  fashion,  she  tore  the  letter  open.  With  hot 
cheeks — it  could  not  be  otherwise,  since  the  writing  was 
his,  and  brought  back  such  memories — she  read  the  con- 
tents. There  was  no  opening — she  was  glad  of  that — 
and  no  signature.  Thus  it  ran : — 

"I  have  treated  you  ill,  but  men  are  not  as  women, 
and  I  was  tempted,  God  knows.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  for- 
give me,  but  I  ask  you  to  save  me.  I  am  in  your  hands. 
If  you  have  the  heart  to  leave  me  to  a  violent  death,  all 
is  said.  If  you  have  mercy,  meet  my  messenger  at  ten 
to-morrow  evening,  where  the  Troutbeck  lane  comes 
down  to  the  lake.  As  I  hope  to  live  you"  run  no  risk  and 
can  suffer  no  harm.  If  you  are  merciful — and  oh,  for 
God's  sake  spare  me — put  a  stone  before  noon  to-morrow 
on  the  post  of  the  second  gate  towards  Ambleside." 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE   ANSWER 

WHEN  Henrietta  had  read  this  letter  twice,  shivering 
and  drawing  in  her  breath  as  often  as  she  came  to  the 
passionate  cry  for  mercy  that  broke  its  current,  she  sat 
gazing  at  the  paper.  And  her  face  was  rigid.  Had  he 
made  appeal  to  her  affection,  to  the  past,  to  that  which 
had  been  between  them,  still  more  had  he  assumed  that 
the  spell  was  unbroken  and  her  heart  was  his,  her  pride 
had  revolted  and  revolted  passionately.  She  had  spurned 
the  letter  and  the  writer.  And  perhaps,  when  it  was  too 
late,  she  had  repented. 

But  that  cry,  wrung,  it  seemed,  from  the  man's  heart 
in  his  own  despite,  pierced  her  heart.  How  could  she 
refuse,  if  his  life  hung  on  her  act,  if  by  lifting  her 
finger,  she  could  save  him  without  risk  to  herself  ?  The 
thought  of  him  was  repugnant  to  her,  shamed  her,  filled 
her  with  contempt  of  herself.  But  she  had  loved  him 
once,  or  had  fancied  in  her  folly  that  she  loved  him ;  and 
he  asked  for  his  life.  He,  a  man,  lay  at  the  mercy  of 
a  woman,  a  girl;  how  could  she  refuse?  If  her  heart 
were  obdurate,  her  sex  spoke  for  him. 

"And  oh !  for  God's  sake  spare  me !" 

She  read  the  words  again  and  again,  and  shuddered. 
If  she  refused,  and  afterwards  when  it  was  too  late,  when 
nothing  could  be  done,  she  repented?  If  when  judg- 
ment had  passed  upon  him,  and  the  day  was  come  and 

163 


164  THE  ANSWER 

the  hour  and  the  minute — and  in  her  brain,  though  she 
were  one  hundred  miles  away,  St.  Sepulchre's  bell  tolled 
— if  she  repented  then  how  would  she  bear  it? 

She  would  not  be  able  to  bear  it. 

And  then  other  considerations  not  less  powerful,  and 
all  pointing  in  the  same  direction,  arose  in  her  mind. 
If  she  did  this  thing,  whatever  it  was,  the  man  would 
escape.  He  would  vanish  from  the  country  and  from 
her  knowledge  and  ken.  There  would  be  an  end  of  him, 
and  the  relief  would  be  great.  Freed  from  the  shame- 
ful incubus  of  his  presence  she  would  breathe  again. 
She  might  make  a  new  start  then,  she  might  frame  some 
plan  for  her  life.  She  was  too  young  to  suppose  that 
she  could  ever  be  happy  after  this,  or  that  she  would  live 
to  smile  at  these  troubles.  But  at  least  she  would  not 
be  harassed  by  continual  fears,  she  would  not  be  kept 
in  a  panic  by  the  thought  of  that  which  every  hour  might 
bring  forth.  She  would  be  spared  the  public  trial,  the 
ordeal  of  the  witness-box,  the  shame  of  open  confession. 
Should  she  do,  then,  that  which  he  wished  ?  Ay,  a  thou- 
sand times,  ay.  Her  heart  cried,  ay,  her  mind  was  made 
up.  And  rising,  she  walked  the  room  in  excitement. 
Her  pulse  beat  high,  her  head  was  hot,  she  was  in  a 
fever  to  begin,  to  be  doing,  to  come  to  an  end  of  the 
thing  and  be  safe. 

But  the  thing?  Her  heart  sank  a  little  when  she 
turned  to  that,  and  conned  the  note  again  and  marked 
the  hour.  Ten  ?  The  evenings  were  long  and  dark,  and 
the  house  was  abed  by  ten.  How  was  she  to  pass  out? 
Nor  was  that  all.  What  of  her  position  when  she  had 
passed  out  ?  She  shrank  from  the  thought  of  going  alone 
to  meet  she  knew  not  who  in  the  darkness  by  the  lonely 
edge  of  the  water.  There  would  be  no  help  within  call 


THE  ANSWER  165 

at  that  hour ;  nor  any,  if  she  disappeared,  to  say  which 
way  she  had  gone  or  how  she  had  met  her  fate.  If 
aught  happened  to  her  she  would  vanish  and  leave  no 
trace.  And  they  would  think  perhaps  that  she  had  fled 
to  him ! 

The  prospect  was  terrifying.  And  nine  girls  out  of 
ten,  though  of  ordinary  courage,  would  have  shrunk 
hack.  But  Henrietta  had  a  spirit — too  high  a  spirit  or 
she  had  not  been  here ! — and  she  fancied  that  if  ever  it 
behoved  her  to  run  a  risk,  it  behove  her  to  run  one  now. 
And  that  not  for  the  man's  sake  only,  but  for  her  own. 
She  rose  above  her  momentary  alarm,  therefore,  and  she 
asked  herself  what  she  had  to  fear.  True,  when  she  had 
met  him  that  morning  she  had  imagined  in  the  gloom 
of  the  kitchen  that  she  read  murder  in  his  eyes.  But  for 
an  instant  only;  now  she  laughed  at  the  notion.  Safe 
in  her  chamber  she  found  it  absurd :  the  bizarre  creation 
of  her  fancy  or  her  timidity,  aided  by  some  shadow  cast 
athwart  his  face.  And  for  the  matter  of  that,  why  should 
he  harm  her  ?  Her  presence  at  the  trysting-place  would 
be  his.  surety  that  she  had  no  mind  to  betray  him ;  but 
that  on  the  contrary  she  was  willing  to  help  him. 
"I  will  go,  I  must  go,"  she  thought.  "I  must  go." 
Yet  vague  alarms  troubled  her;  and  she  hesitated. 
If  there  had  been  no  menace  in  his  eyes  that  morning — 
the  eyes  that  had  so  often  looked  into  hers  and  lan- 
guished on  her  with  a  lover's  fondness — why  had  she 
fled  so  precipitately?  And  why  had  her  knees  shaken 
under  her  ?  Pshaw,  she  had  been  taken  by  surprise.  It 
was  repugnance  rather  than  fear  which  she  had  felt. 
And  because  she  had  been  foolish  once,  and  imagined 
things,  because  she  was  afraid,  like  a  child,  of  the  dark, 
because  she  shrank  from  meeting  a  stranger  after  night- 


166  THE  ANSWER 

fall,  surely,  surely  she  was  not  going  to  let  a  man  perish 
whom  she  could  save  with  one  of  her  fingers ! 

And  still,  prudence  whispered  her,  asking  why  he 
fixed  so  late  an  hour.  Why  had  he  not  fixed  five  or 
six,  if  it  were  only  out  of  respect  for  her?  At  five  it 
was  already  dark,  yet  the  world  was  awake  and  astir, 
respectable  folk  were  abroad,  and  help  was  within  call. 
She  would  have  met  him  without  hesitation  at  five  or 
at  six.  But  there,  how  stupid  she  was !  It  was  the  very 
fact  that  the  world  was  astir  and  awake  that  made  an 
early  hour  impossible.  If  she  went  at  five  or  at  six  she 
would  be  followed,  her  movements  would  be  watched,  her 
companion  would  be  noted.  The  very  air  would  be  full 
of  eavesdroppers.  She  knew  that,  for  the  fact  irritated 
her  hourly  and  daily.  And  doubtless  he  too,  hedged 
about  by  fears  and  suspicions,  knew  it. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  was  natural,  therefore.  Still, 
it  rendered  her  task  more  difficult.  She  dared  not  in- 
terfere with  the  heavy  bars  that  secured  the  two  doors 
which  looked  on  the  lake.  She  would  be  heard,  even  if 
the  task  were  not  beyond  her  strength.  And  to  gain 
the  back  entrance  she  must  thread  a  labyrinth  of  pass- 
ages guarded  by  wakeful  dogs  and  sleeping  servants ;  for 
servants  in  those  days  slept  on  the  stairs  or  in  any  odd 
place.  She  would  be  detected  before  she  had  undone 
a  single  bolt. 

Then  what  was  she  to  do?  Her  bedroom  was  on  the 
second  floor,  and  exit  by  the  window  was  not  possible. 
On  which,  some,  surveying  the  situation,  would  have  sat 
still,  and  thought  themselves  justified.  But  Henrietta 
was  of  firmer  stuff;  and  for  such  where  there  is  a  will 
there  is  a  way.  Mr.  Rogers's  room,  of  which  she  had 
still  the  use,  was  on  the  first  floor  of  the  south  wing 


THE  ANSWER  167 

and  somewhat  remote  from  the  main  part  of  the  house. 
Outside  the  door  was  a  sash  window  which  gave  light  to 
the  passage;  and  owing  to  the  rise  of  the  hill  on  every 
side  of  the  house  save  the  front,  the  sill  of  this  window 
was  not  more  than  six  feet  above  the  garden.  She  could 
drop  from  it  with  safety.  Return  was  less  easy,  but 
with  the  help  of  a  chair,  which  she  could  lower  before 
she  descended,  she  might  manage  to  climb  in  again. 
The  feat  seemed  easy  and  she  did  not  feel  afraid. 
Whether  she  would  feel  afraid  when  the  time  came  was 
another  matter. 

In  the  meantime  she  had  to  wait,  and  sleeping  ill  that 
night,  she  had  many  uneasy  dreams,  and  waking  before 
daybreak  thought  herself  into  a  fever.  All  the  dreadful 
things  that  might  befall  her  rose  before  her  in  the  liveli- 
est shapes;  and  long  before  the  house  awoke — there  is 
no  fear  like  five-o'clock-in-the-morning  fear — she  had 
given  up  the  notion.  But  when  the  dull  November  day 
peered  in  at  the  bedroom  window,  and  she  had  risen, 
she  was  herself  again.  She  chid  herself  for  the  childish 
terrors  in  which  she  had  indulged,  and  lest  she  should 
give  way  to  them  again  she  determined  to  take  a  de- 
cisive step.  Long  before  noon  she  slipped  out  of  the 
house  and  turned  towards  Ambleside. 

Unfortunately  it  was  a  wet  morning,  and  she  feared 
that  her  promenade  in  such  weather  must  excite  sus- 
picion. Eyes,  she  was  sure,  were  on  her  before  she  had 
gone  a  dozen  paces.  To  throw  watchers  off  the  scent  and 
to  prove  herself  careless  of  espial  she  would  not  look 
back;  but  when  she  reached  the  first  corner  she  picked 
up  a  stone,  and  threw  it  at  an  imaginary  object  on  the 
edge  of  the  lake.  She  stood  an  instant  with  her  wet- 
weather  hood  drawn  about  her  face  as  if  to  mark  the 


168  THE  ANSWER 

effect  of  her  shot.  Then  she  picked  up  another  stone  and 
poised  it,  but  did  not  throw  it.  Instead,  she  walked  on 
with  the  stone  in  her  hand.  All  without  looking  back. 

She  came  to  the  second  gate  on  the  Ambleside  road. 
It  was  out  of  sight  of  the  inn,  and  it  seemed  an  easy 
and  an  innocent  thing  to  lay  the  stone  on  the  head  of  the 
pillar — gate-posts  in  that  country  are  of  stone — and 
to  go  on  her  way.  But  she  heard  a  footstep  behind  her 
and  panic  seized  her.  She  felt  that  nothing  in  the  world 
would  be  so  suspicious,  so  damning  as  such  an  act.  She 
hesitated,  and  was  lost.  She  walked  on  slowly  with  the 
stone  in  her  hand,  and  the  fine  rain  beating  in  her 
face. 

Her  follower,  a  country  clown,  passed  her.  She  loi- 
tered until  he  was  out  of  sight ;  then  she  turned  and  re- 
traced her  steps.  A  half-minute's  walking  brought  her 
again  to  the  gate.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  and  in  a 
fever  lest  at  the  last  some  one  should  take  her  in  the  act 
she  set  the  stone  on  the  top  of  the  post,  and  passed  on. 

Half-way  back  to  the  inn  she  stopped.  What  if  the 
stone  had  not  kept  its  place?  She  had  merely  thrust 
out  her  hand  as  she  passed,  and  deposited  the  stone 
without  looking.  Now  she  was  sure  that  her  ear  had 
caught  the  faint  sound  which  the  stone  made  in  striking 
the  sodden  turf.  She  turned  and  walked  back. 

When  she  reached  the  gate  she  was  thankful  that  she 
had  had  that  thought.  The  stone  had  fallen.  For- 
tunately there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  it  was  easy  to 
pick  up  the  first  stone  that  came  to  hand  and  replace  the 
signal.  Then  she  walked  back  to  the  inn,  inclined  to 
laugh  at  the  proportions  to  which  her  simple  task  had 
attained  in  her  mind. 

She  would  have  laughed  after  another  fashion  had  she 


THE  ANSWER  169 

known  that  her  movements  from  beginning  to  end  had 
been  watched  by  Mr.  Sutton.  The  chaplain,  ashamed  yet 
pursuing,  had  sneaked  after  her  when  she  left  the  inn, 
hoping  that  if  she  went  far  he  might  find  in  some  lonely 
place,  where  she  could  not  escape,  an  opportunity  of 
pleading  his  cause.  He  fancied  that  the  lapse  of  three 
days,  and  his  patient,  mournful  conduct,  might  have 
softened  her ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  probable  effect  on  a 
young  girl  of  such  a  life  as  she  was  leading — of  its  soli- 
tude, its  dullness,  its  weariness. 

On  seeing  her  turn,  however,  he  had  had  no  mind  to 
be  detected,  and  he  had  slipped  into  the  wood.  From 
his  retreat  he  had  seen  her  deposit  the  stone :  he  had  seen 
also  her  guilty  face — it  was  he,  indeed,  who  had  removed 
the  stone.  He  had  done  so,  expecting  to  find  a  note 
under  it,  and  he  was  all  but  surprised  in  the  act.  When 
she  placed  the  second,  he  was  within  three  paces  of  her, 
crouching  with  a  burning  face  behind  the  wall.  The 
thought  of  her  contempt  if  she  discovered  him  so  ap- 
palled him  that,  cold  as  it  was,  he  sweated  with  shame ; 
nor  was  it  until  she  had  gone  some  distance  that  he  dared 
to  lift  his  eyes  above  the  wall.  Then  he  saw  that  she 
had  put  another  stone  on  the  gate-post. 

He  took  it  in  his  hand  and  compared  it  with  the  one 
which  he  still  held.  They  were  as  common  stones  as  any 
that  lay  in  the  road.  And  there  was  no  letter.  The 
conclusion  was  clear.  The  stone  was  a  signal.  Nor 
could  he  doubt  for  whom  it  was  intended.  The  London 
officer  was  right.  Walterson-  was  in  the  neighbourhood 
and  she  was  in  communication  with  him.  The  girl's  in- 
fatuation still  ruled  her. 

That  hardened  him  a  little  in  his  course  of  action. 
But  he  was  not  at  ease,  and  when  some  one  coughed — 


170  THE  ANSWER 

slightly  but  with  meaning — while  he  gazed  at  the  stone, 
he  jumped  a  yard.  He  stood,  with  all  the  blood  in  his 
body  flown  to  his  face.  The  cough  had  come  from  the 
wood  behind  him;  and  ten  paces  from  him,  peeping 
over  the  bush,  was  Mr.  Bishop. 

The  runner  chuckled.  "Very  well  done,  reverend  sir," 
he  said.  "  Very  well  done.  You've  the  makings  of  a  very 
tidy  officer  about  you.  I  could  not  have  done  it  much 
neater  myself.  But  now,  suppose  you  leave  the  coast 
clear,  or  maybe  you'll  be  scaring  the  other  party." 

Mr.  Sutton,  with  his  face  the  colour  of  beetroot — for 
he  was  heartily  ashamed  of  the  part  he  had  been  playing 
— began  to  stammer  an  explanation. 

"I  saw  the  young  lady,  and  didn't — I  couldn't  under- 
stand  " 

"What  the  lay  was,"  Mr.  Bishop  answered,  grinning 
at  the  other's  discomfiture.  "Just  so.  Same  with  me. 
But  suppose  in  the  meantime,  reverend  sir,"  with  unc- 
tion, "you  leave  the  ground  clear  for  the  other  party? 
We  can  talk  as  well  elsewhere  as  here,  and  without  queer- 
ing the  pitch." 

The  chaplain  swallowed  his  vexation  as  well  as  he 
could  and  complied — but  stiffly.  The  two  made  their 
way  back  in  silence  to  the  gap  in  the  wall  by  which  the 
chaplain  had  entered.  There,  having  first  ascertained 
that  the  road  was  clear,  they  stepped  out.  By  that  time 
Mr.  Sutton  was  feeling  better.  After  all,  he  had  been 
right  to  follow  the  girl.  Left  to  herself,  and  a  slave 
to  the  villain  who  had  fascinated  her,  she  might  suffer 
worse  things  than  a  friendly  espionage.  He  determined 
to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  "What  do  you  make  of 
it?"  he  asked,  still  blushing. 

"Queer  lay,"  Bishop  answered  drily. 


if  1* 

'''You  -understand  it,  then?" 

"Middling  well.  Gipsy  patter  that."  He  pointed  to' 
the  stone. 

"You  think  the  young  lady  is  communicating — " 

"With  another  party?  I  do.  Leastways  I  know  itV 
And  the  party " 

"Is  Walterson?" 

"Just  so,"  the  runner  answered.  "Why  not?  Young 
ladies  are  but  women,  after  all,  reverend  sir,  and  much 
like  other  women,  only  sometimes  more  so.  I  began,  I 
confess,  by  being  of  your  way  of  thinking.  The  lady  is 
so  precious  snowy  and  so  precious  stiff  you  would  not 
believe  ice  would  melt  in  her  mouth.  But  when  I  came 
to  think  it  all  over,  and  remembered  how  she  stood  by 
it  at  first,  and  would  not  give  her  name,  nor  any  clue 
by  which  we  could  trace  where  she  came  from — so  that 
till  Captain  Clyne  turned  up  I  was  altogether  at  a  loss — 
and  how  she  made  light  of  what  Walterson  had  done, 
when  it  was  first  told  her,  and  a  lot  of  little  things  like 
that,  I  began  to  see  how  the  land  lay,  innocent  as  she 
looks.  And  after  all,  come  to  think  of  it,  if  she  liked  the 
man  well  enough  to  go  off  with  him — why  should  she 
cut  him  adrift?  When  she  had,  so  to  speak,  paid  the 
price  for  him,  your  reverence?  How  does  that  strike 
you?" 

"But  Captain  Clyne,"  Sutton  answered  slowly,  "who 
knew  her  well,  and  knows  her  well " 

"I  know." 

"He  does  not  share  your  opinion.  He  is  under  the 
belief,"  the  chaplain  continued,  "that  her  eyes  are  open. 
And  that  she  hates  the  very  thought  of  the  man,  and  of 
the  mistake  she  made.  His  view  is  that  she  is  only 
anxious  to  behave  herself." 


172  THE  ANSWER 

Bishop  winked.  "Ay,  but  Captain  Clyne,"  he  said, 
"is  in  love  with  her,  you  see." 

Mr.  Sutton  stared.  The  colour  rose  slowly  to  his 
cheeks. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  I  may  say 
I  know  that  it  is  not  so.  He  has  long  given  up  the 
remotest  idea  of  the — of  the  match  that  was  pro- 
jected." 

"May  be,  may  be,"  the  runner  answered  lightly.  "I 
don't  say  that  that  is  not  so.  But  it  is  just  when  a 
man  has  given  up  all  thought  of  a  thing  that  he  thinks 
of  it  the  most,  Mr.  Sutton.  Anyway,  there  is  the  stone, 
and  there  is  the  post,  and  I'll  ask  you  plain  for  whom  it 
is  meant,  if  it  is  not  meant  for  Walterson  ?'* 

Mr.  Sutton  nodded.  But  his  thoughts  were  still  en- 
gaged with  Captain  Clyne's  feelings.  The  more  he  con- 
sidered the  point  the  more  inclined  he  was  to  think  that 
the  runner  was  right.  Clyne's  insistence  on  the  girl's 
innocence,  the  extreme  bitterness  that  had  once  or  twice 
broken  through  his  reticence,  and  an  unusual  restless- 
ness of  manner  when  he  had  made  the  remarkable  pro- 
posal that  Mr.  Sutton  should  take  his  place,  all  pointed 
that  way.  And  this  being  so,  it  was  strange  how  the  sus- 
picion sharpened  the  chaplain's  keenness  to  win  the 
prize.  If  she  had  still  so  great  a  value  in  the  eyes  of 
his  patron,  how  enviable  would  he  be  if  by  hook  or  crook 
he  could  gain  her!  How  very  enviable!  And  was  it 
not  for  her  own  good  that  he  should  gain  her ;  even  if  he 
compassed  his  end  by  a  little  manoeuvring,  by  stooping 
a  little,  by  spying  a  little?  Ay,  even,  it  might  be,  by 
frightening  her  a  little.  In  love,  as  in  war,  all  was  fair, 
and  if  he  did  not  love  her  he  desired  her.  She  was  so 
desirable,  so  very  desirable,  he  might  be  forgiven  some- 


THE  ANSWER  173 

what  if  he  stooped  to  conquer :  seeing  that  if  he  failed 
this  dangerous  man  held  her  in  his  power. 

So  when  Bishop  asked  for  the  second  time,  "Will  you 
help  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  her?  You  can  do  it  more 
easily  than  I  can,"  he  was  ready  with  his  answer,  though 
he  blushed  a  little. 

"I  will  stay  here  and  note  who  passes,"  he  replied. 
"Yes,  I  will  do  that." 

'"You  can  do  it  with  less  risk  of  notice  than  I  can," 
the  officer  answered.  "And  I  must  get  back  and  keep 
her  in  view.  It  is  just  possible  that  this  is  a  ruse,  and 
that  the  man  we  want  is  the  other  way." 

"I  will  remain,"  said  Mr.  Sutton  curtly.  And  he 
stayed.  But  he  was  so  taken  up  with  this  new  view  of 
his  patron's  feelings  that  though  Bess  Hinkson  rowed 
along  the  shore  before  his  eyes,  and  looked  hard  at  him, 
he  never  saw  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 

HENRIETTA  sat  and  listened  to  the  various  sounds 
which  told  of  a  household  on  its  way  to  bed;  and  she 
held  her  courage  with  both  hands.  Slip-shod  feet  moved 
along  the  passages,  sleepy  voices  bade  good-night,  dis- 
tant doors  closed  sharply.  And  still,  when  she  thought 
all  had  retired,  the  clatter  of  pot  or  pan  in  the  far-off 
offices  proclaimed  a  belated  worker.  And  she  had  to 
wait  and  listen  and  count  the  pulsations  of  her  heart. 

The  two  wax  candles,  snuff  them  as  she  might,  cast 
but  a  dull  and  melancholy  light.  The  clock  ticked  in 
the  silence  of  the  room  with  appalling  clearness.  Her 
own  movements,  when  she  crept  to  the  door  to  listen, 
scared  her  by  their  stealthiness.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
the  least  of  the  sounds  she  made  must  proclaim  her  vigil. 
One  moment  she  trembled  lest  the  late  burning  of  her 
light  arouse  suspicion ;  the  next  lest  the  cloak  which  she 
had  brought  in  and  cast  across  a  chair  should  have  put 
some  one  on  the  alert.  Or  she  tormented  herself  with 
the  fancy  that  the  snow  with  which  the  evening  sky  had 
been  heavy  would  fall  before  she  started  and  betray  her 
footsteps. 

Of  one  thing  she  tried  not  to  think.  She  would  not 
dwell  on  what  might  happen  at  the  meeting-place.  She 
felt  that  if  she  let  her  thoughts  run  on  that,  she  would 
turn  coward,  she  would  not  go.  And  one  thing  at  a  time, 
she  told  herself.  There  lay  her  cloak,  the  window  was 

174 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE  175 

not  three  paces  from  her,  the  chair  which  she  meant  to 
use  stood  by  the  door.  In  three  minutes  she  could  be 
outside,  in  half  an  hour  she  might  be  back.  But  in  the 
meantime,  the  room  was  lonesome  and  creepy,  the  creak 
of  a  board  made  her  start,  the  fall  of  the  wood-ash 
stopped  her  breath.  Like  many  engaged  in  secret  deeds 
she  made  her  own  mystery  and  trembled  at  it. 

At  length  all  seemed  abed. 

She  extinguished  one  of  the  candles  and  took  up  her 
cloak.  As  she  put  it  on  before  the  pale  mirror  she  saw 
that  her  white  face  and  high-piled  hair  showed  by  the 
light  of  the  remaining  candle  like  the  face  of  a  ghost; 
and  she  shivered.  But  that  was  the  last  tribute  to  weak- 
ness. Her  nature,  bold  to  recklessness,  asserted  itself 
now  the  moment  for  action  was  come.  She  set  the  candle 
on  the  floor  and  shaded  it  so  that  its  light  might  not  be 
seen.  Then,  taking  the  chair  in  her  hands  she  stepped 
into  the  dark  passage,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
The  close,  heavy  smell  of  the  house  assailed  her  as  she 
listened ;  but  all  was  still,  and  she  raised  the  sash  of  the 
window.  She  passed  the  chair  through  the  aperture  and 
leaning  far  out  that  it  might  not  strike  the  wall  lowered 
it  gently.  She  felt  it  touch  the  ground  and  settle  on 
its  legs.  Then  she  climbed  over  the  sill  and  let  herself 
down  until  her  feet  rested  on  the  chair.  She  made  cer- 
tain that  she  could  draw  herself  in  again,  then  she 
sprang  lightly  to  the  ground. 

The  chair  cracked  as  her  weight  left  it,  and  for  a 
moment  she  crouched  motionless  against  the  wall.  But 
she  had  little  to  fear.  Snow  had  not  yet  fallen,  but  it 
was  in  the  air  and  the  night  was  as  dark  as  pitch.  She 
could  not  see  a  yard  and  when  she  moved,  she  had  not 
gone  two  steps  from  the  wall  before  it  vanished,  and  all 


176  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 

that  remained  to  her  was  some  notion  of  its  position. 
Above,  below,  around  was  a  darkness  that  could  be  felt. 
Still,  she  found  the  garden-gate  with  a  little  difficulty, 
and  she  passed  into  the  road,  and  turned  to  the  left. 
She  knew  that  if  she  walked  in  that  direction  she  must 
come  to  the  place — a  furlong  away — where  the  Trout- 
beck  lane  ran  up  from  the  lake-side. 

But  the  blackness  was  such  that  lake  and  hill  were  all 
one,  and  she  had  to  go  warily,  now  feeling  for  the  bank 
on  her  left,  now  for  the  ditch  on  her  right.  Not  a  star 
showed,  and  only  in  one  place  a  patch  of  lighter  sky 
broke  the  darkness  and  enabled  her  to  discern  the  shapes 
of  the  trees  as  she  passed  under  them.  It  was  a  night 
when  any  deed  might  be  done,  any  mischief  executed 
beside  that  lonely  water;  and  no  eye  see  it.  But  she 
tried  not  to  think  of  this.  She  tried  not  to  think  of 
the  tracts  of  lonely  hill  that  stretched  their  long  arms 
on  her  left,  or  of  the  deep,  black  water  that  lurked  on  her 
right.  And  she  had  compassed  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  when  a  faint  sound,  as  of  following  feet,  caught 
her  ear. 

She  halted,  and  shook  the  hood  back  from  her  ears. 
She  listened.  She  fancied  that  she  heard  the  pattering 
cease,  and  she  peered  into  the  darkness,  striving  to  em- 
body the  thing  that  followed.  But  she  could  see  nothing, 
she  could  now  hear  nothing.  She  had  her  handkerchief 
in  her  hand,  and  as  she  stood,  peering  and  listening,  she 
wiped  the  wind-borne  moisture  from  her  face. 

Still  she  heard  nothing,  and  she  turned  and  set  off 
again.  But  her  thoughts  were  with  her  follower,  and 
she  had  not  taken  three  steps  before  she  ran  against  the 
bank,  and  hardly  saved  herself  from  a  fall. 

She  felt  that  with  a  little  more  she  would  lose  her 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE  177 

head,  and,  astray  in  the  boundless  night,  not  know  which 
direction  to  take.  She  must  pull  herself  together.  She 
must  go  on.  And  she  went  on.  But  twice  she  had  the 
sickening  assurance  that  something  was  moving  at  her 
heels.  Nor,  but  for  the  thought  which  by-and-by  oc- 
curred to  her,  that  her  follower  might  be  the  person  she 
came  to  meet,  could  she  have  kept  to  her  purpose. 

She  came  at  length,  trembling  and  clutching  her  hood 
about  her,  to  the  foot  of  the  lane.  She  knew  the  place 
by  the  colder,  moister  air  that  swept  her  face,  as  well  as 
by  the  lapping  of  the  water  on  the  strand.  For  the  road 
ran  very  neax  the  lake  at  this  point.  It  was  a  mooring- 
place  for  two  or  three  boats,  belonging  for  the  most 
part  to  Troutbeck ;  and  she  could  hear  a  loose  oar  in  one 
of  the  unseen  craft  roll  over  with  a  hollow  sound.  But 
no  one  moved  in  the  darkness,  or  spoke,  or  came  to  her ; 
and  with  parted  lips,  striving  to  control  herself,  she 
halted,  leaning  with  one  hand  against  the  angle  of  the 
bank.  Then — she  could  not  be  mistaken — she  heard  her 
follower  halt. 

Thirty  seconds — it  seemed  an  age — she  was  silent,  and 
forced  herself  to  listen,  straining  her  ears.  Then  she 
could  control  herself  no  longer. 

"Is  it  you?"  she  whispered,  her  voice  strained  and 
uncertain,  "I  am  here." 

No  one  answered.  And  when  she  had  waited  awhile 
glaring  into  the  night  where  she  had  last  heard  the  foot- 
steps she  shuddered  violently.  For  a  space  she  could  not 
speak,  she  leant  against  the  bank. 

Then,  "Is  it  you?"  she  whispered  desperately,  turning 
her  face  this  way  and  that.  "Speak  if  it  is!  Speak! 
For  God's  sake,  speak  to  me!" 

No  one  answered,  but  out  of  the  gloom  came  the  low 


178.  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 

Creep  of  the  wind  among  the  reeds,  and  the  melancholy 
lapping  of  the  water  on  the  stones.  Once  more  the  oar 
in  the  boat  rolled  over  with  a  hollow  coffin-like  echo. 
And  from  a  distance  another  sound,  the  flap  and  beat 
of  a  sail  as  the  rudder  was  put  over,  came  off  the  surface 
of  the  lake.  But  she  did  not  heed  this.  It  was  with 
the  darkness  about  her,  it  was  with  the  skulking  thing  a 
pace  or  two  from  her,  it  was  with  the  arms  stretched  out 
to  clutch  her,  it  was  with  the  fear  that  was  beginning 
to  stifle  her  as  the  thick  night  stifled  her,  that  she  was 
concerned. 

Once  more,  striving  fiercely  to  combat  her  fear,  to 
steady  her  voice,  she  spoke. 

"If  you  do  not  answer,"  she  cried  unsteadily,  "I  shall 
go  back!  You  hear?  I  shall  go  back!" 

Still  no  answer.  And  on  that,  because  a  frightened 
woman  is  capable  of  anything,  and  especially  of  the  thing 
which  is  the  least  to  be  expected,  she  flung  herself  for- 
ward with  her  hands  outstretched  and  tried  to  grapple 
with  the  thing  that  terrified  her.  She  caught  nothing : 
all  that  she  felt  was  a  warm  breath  on  her  cheek.  She 
recoiled  then  as  quickly  as  she  had  advanced.  Unfortu- 
nately her  skirt  brushed  something  as  she  fell  back  and 
the  contact,  slight  as  it  was,  drew  a  low  shriek  from  her. 
She  leant  panting  against  the  bank,  crouching  like  a 
thing  at  bay.  The  beating  of  her  heart  seemed  to  choke 
her,  the  gloom  to  stretch  out  arms  about  her.  The  touch 
of  a  moth  on  her  cheek  would  have  drawn  a  shriek. 
And  on  the  lake — but  near  the  shore  now,  a  bowshot 
from  where  she  crouched,  the  sail  of  the  unseen  boat 
flapped  against  the  mast  and  began  to  descend.  The 
light  of  a  shaded  lanthorn  beamed  for  an  instant  on  the 
dark  surface  of  the  water,  then  vanished. 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE  179 

She  did  not  see  the  lanthorn,  she  did  not  see  the  boat, 
for  she  was  glaring  in  the  other  direction,  the  direction 
in  which  she  had  heard  the  footsteps.  All  her  senses 
were  concentrated  on  the  thing  close  to  her.  But  some 
reflection  of  the  light,  glancing  off  the  water,  did  reveal 
a  thing — a  dim  uncertain  something — man  or  woman, 
dead  or  alive,  standing  close  to  her,  beside  her :  and  with 
a  shriek  she  sprang  from  the  thing,  whatever  it  was, 
gave  way  to  blind  panic,  and  fled.  For  some  thirty 
yards  she  kept  the  road.  Then  she  struck  the  bank 
and  fell,  violently  bruising  herself.  But  she  felt  nothing. 
In  a  moment  she  was  on  her  feet  again  and  running 
on,  running  on  blindly,  madly.  She  fancied  feet  behind 
her,  and  a  hand  stretched  out  to  seize  her  hair;  and  in 
terror,  that  terror  which  she  had  kept  at  bay  so  long  and 
so  bravely,  she  ran  on  at  random,  until  she  found  her- 
self, she  knew  not  how,  clinging  with  both  hands  to  the 
wicket-gate  of  the  garden.  A  faint  light  in  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  inn  had  directed  her  to  it. 

She  stood  then,  still  trembling  in  every  limb,  but 
drawing  courage  from  the  neighbourhood  of  living 
things.  And  as  well  as  her  laboured  breathing  would  let 
her,  she  listened.  But  presently  she  caught  the  stealthy 
trip-trip  of  feet  along  the  road,  and  in  a  quick  return  of 
terror  she  opened  the  gate  and  slipped  into  the  garden. 
She  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  close  the  gate  after  and 
without  noise.  But  that  done,  woman's  nerves  could 
bear  no  more.  Her  knees  were  shaking  under  her,  as 
she  groped  her  way  to  her  window,  and  felt  for  the  chair 
which  she  had  left  beneath  it. 

The  chair  was  gone.  Impossible !  She  could  not  have 
found  the  right  window;  that  was  it.  She  felt  with  her 
hands  along  the  wall,  felt  farther.  But  there  was  no 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 

chair — anywhere.  She  had  made  no  mistake.  Some  one 
had  removed  the  chair. 

Strange  to  say,  the  moment  she  was  sure  of  that,  the 
fear  which  had  driven  her  in  headlong  panic  from  the 
water-side  left  her.  She  thought  no  more  of  her  stealthy 
attendant.  Her  one  care  now  was  to  get  in — to  get  in 
and  still  to  keep  secret  the  fact  that  she  had  been  out ! 
She  had  trembled  like  a  leaf  a  few  moments  before,  in 
fear  of  the  shapeless  thing  that  crouched  beside  her  in 
the  night.  Now,  with  no  more  than  the  garden-fence 
between  her  and  it,  she  feared  it  no  more  than  a  feather. 
She  regained  her  ordinary  plane,  and  foresaw  all  the 
suspicion,  all  the  inconvenience,  to  which  her  position, 
if  she  could  not  re-enter,  must  subject  her.  And  the 
smaller,  the  immediate  fear  expelled  the  greater  and 
more  remote. 

She  leant  against  the  wall  and  tried  to  think.  Who 
had,  who  could  have  removed  the  chair  ?  She  could  not 
guess.  And  thinking  only  increased  her  eagerness,  her 
anxiety  to  enter  and  be  safe.  She  must  get  in  somehow, 
even  at  a  little  risk. 

She  tried  to  take  hold  of  the  sill  above  her,  and  so 
to  raise  herself  to  the  window  by  sheer  strength.  But 
she  could  not  grasp  the  sill,  though  she  could  touch  it. 
Still,  if  she  had  something  in  place  of  the  chair,  if  she 
had  something  a  foot  high  on  which  to  raise  herself  she 
could  succeed.  But  what?  And  how  was  she  to  find 
anything  in  the  dark?  She  peered  round,  compelling 
herself  to  think.  Surely  she  might  find  something.  With 
a  single  foot  of  height  she  was  saved.  Without  that 
foot  of  height  she  must  rouse  the  house ;  and  that  meant 
disgrace  and  contumely,  and  degrading  suspicion.  Her 
cheeks  burned  at  the  prospect.  For  no  story,  no  ex- 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE  181 

planation  would  account  satisfactorily  for  her  absence 
from  the  house  at  such  an  hour. 

She  was  about  to  grope  her  way  round  the  house  to 
the  yard  at  the  back — where  with  luck  she  might  find  a 
chicken  coop  or  a  stable  bucket — when  five  paces  from 
her  the  latch  of  the  wicket  clicked  sharply.  By  instinct 
she  flattened  herself  against  the  wall;  but  she  had 
scarcely  time  to  feel  the  sudden  leap  of  her  heart  before 
a  mild  voice  spoke  out  of  the  gloom. 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  taken  your  chair,"  it  murmured, 
"pray  forgive  me.  I  am  Mr.  Sutton,  and  I — I  am  very 
sorry !" 

"You  followed  me !» 

tj-f  )> 

"You  followed  me !"  Her  voice  rang  imperative  with 
anger.  "You  followed  me!  You  have  been  spying  on 
me!  You!" 

"No !  No !"  he  muttered.    "I  meant  only " 

"How  dare  you!  How  dare  you!"  she  cried  in  low 
fierce  tones.  "You  have  been  spying  on  me,  sir!  And 
you  removed  the  chair  that — that  I  might  not  enter 
without  your  help." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  standing,  though  she  could 
not  see  him,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast.  Then : 

"I  confess,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "I  confess  it  was 
so.  I  spied  on  you." 

"And  followed  me!" 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  it,  his  hands  extended  in  unseen 
deprecation,  "I  did." 

"Why?"  she  cried.    "Why,  sir?" 

"Because " 

"But  I  do  not  want  to  know,"  she  retorted,  cutting 
him  short  as  she  remembered  the  time,  and  place,  "I 


182  A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE 

want  to  know  nothing,  to  hear  nothing  from  yon !  The 
chair,  sir !  The  chair,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  add  further 
outrage  to  your  unmanly  conduct.  Set  me  the  chair  and 
go!" 

"But  hear  at  least,"  he  pleaded,  "why  I  followed  you, 
Miss  Darner.  Why " 

She  stamped  her  foot  on  the  ground. 

"The  chair!"  she  repeated. 

He  was  most  anxious  to  tell  her  that  though  other 
motives  had  led  him  to  spy  on  her  and  watch  her  window, 
he  had  followed  her  out  of  a  pure  desire  to  protect  her. 
But  her  insistence  overrode  him,  silenced  him.  He  set 
the  chair  under  the  passage  window  and  murmured 
submissively  that  it  was  there. 

That  was  enough  for  her.  She  felt  for  it,  found  it, 
and  without  thought  of  him  or  word  to  him,  she  climhed 
nimbly  in.  That  done  she  stooped  and  drew  the  chair 
up,  and  closed  the  window  down  upon  him  and  secured 
it.  Next,  feeling  for  the  door  of  Mr.  Kogers's  room 
she  got  rid  of  the  chair,  and  seized  her  hidden  candle 
and  crept  out  and  up  the  stairs.  Apparently  all  the 
house,  save  the  man  who  had  detected  her,  slept.  But 
she  did  not  dare  to  pause  or  prove  the  fact.  She  had 
had  her  lesson  and  a  severe  one ;  and  she  did  not  breathe 
freely  until  the  door  of  her  chamber  was  locked  behind 
her,  and  she  knew  herself  once  more  within  the  bounds 
of  the  usual  and  the  proper. 

Then  for  a  brief  while,  as  she  tore  off  her  damp 
clothes,  her  thoughts  ran  stormily  on  Mr.  Sutton:  nor 
did  she  dream,  or  he,  from  what  things  he  had  saved  her. 
The  man  was  a  wretch,  a  spy,  a  sneak  trying  to  worm 
himself  into  her  confidence.  She  would  box  his  ears 
if  he  threatened  her  or  referred  to  the  matter  again. 


A  NIGHT  ADVENTURE  183 

'And.  if  he  told  others — she  did  not  know  what  she  would 
not  do !  For  the  rest,  she  had  let  herself  be  scared  by 
a  nothing,  by  a  step,  by  a  sound ;  and  she  despised  herself 
for  her  cowardice.  But — she  had  that  consolation — she 
had  played  her  part,  she  had  gone  to  the  rendezvous,  she 
had  not  failed.  The  fault  lay  with  him  who  should  have 
met  her  there,  and  who  had  not  met  her. 

And  so,  shivering  and  chilled — for  bedroom  fires  were 
not  yet,  and  she  was  worn  out  with  fright  and  exposure 
— she  hid  herself  under  the  heavy  patchwork  quilt  and 
sought  comfort  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  It  was  not 
long  in  coming,  for  she  suspected  no  more  than  she 
knew.  Like  the  purblind  insect  that  creeps  upon  the 
crowded  pavement  and  is  missed  by  a  hundred  feet,  she 
discerned  neither  the  dangers  which  she  had  so  narrowly 
escaped,  nor  those  into  which  her  late  action  was  fated 
to  hurry  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 

IT  was  daylight  when  she  awoke ;  but  it  had  not  been 
daylight  long.  Yet  some  one  was  knocking ;  and  knock- 
ing loudly  at  the  door  of  her  bedroom.  She  rose  on  her 
elbow,  and  looking  at  the  half-curtained  window  decided 
that  it  was  eight  o'clock,  perhaps  a  little  later.  But  not 
so  much  later  that  they  need  raise  the  house  in  waking 
her. 

"Thank  you,"  she  cried  petulantly.  "That  will  do! 
That  will  do!  I  am  awake."  And  she  laid  her  head  on 
the  pillow  again,  and  closing  her  eyes,  sighed  deeply. 
The  events  of  the  night  were  coming  back  to  her — and 
with  them  her  troubles. 

But,  "Please  to  open  the  door,  miss  I"  came  the  an- 
swer in  gruff  accents.  "I  want  to  speak  to  you,  by  your 
leave." 

Henrietta  sat  up,  her  hair  straggling  from  under  the 
nightcap  that  framed  her  pretty  features.  The  voice 
that  demanded  entrance  was  Mrs.  Gilson's:  and  even 
over  Henrietta  that  voice  had  power.  She  parleyed  no 
longer.  She  threw  a  wrap  about  her,  and  hastily  opened 
the  door. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.    "Mrs.  Gilson,  is  it  you?" 

"Be  good  enough,"  the  landlady  answered,  "to  let  me 
come  in  a  minute,  miss." 

Her  peremptory  tone  astonished  Henrietta,  who  said 
neither  Yes  nor  No,  but  stood  staring.  The  landlady 

184 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  185 

with  little  ceremony  took  leave  for  granted.  She  en- 
tered, went  by  the  girl  to  the  window,  and  dragging 
the  curtains  aside,  let  in  the  full  light.  The  adventures 
of  the  night  had  left  Henrietta  pale.  But  at  this  her 
colour  rose. 

"What  is  it?"  she  repeated. 

"You  know  best,"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered  with  more 
than  her  usual  curtness.  "Deal  of  dirt  and  little  profit, 
I'm  afraid,  like  Brough  March  fair !  It's  not  enough  to 
be  a  fool  once,  it  seems !  Though  I'd  have  thought  you'd 
paid  pretty  smartly  for  it.  Smart  enough  to  know  bet- 
ter now,  my  lass !" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Henrietta  faltered. 

"You  don't?"  Mrs.  Gilson  rejoined,  and  with  her 
arms  set  akimbo  she  stared  severely  at  the  girl,  who,  in 
her  night-clothes  with  her  cloak  thrown  about  her  and 
her  colour  coming  and  going,  looked  both  guilty  and 
frightened.  "I  fancy  your  face  knows,  if  you  don't. 
Where  were  you  last  night?  Ay,  after  dark  last  night, 
madam?  Where  were  you,  I  say?" 

"After  dark?"  Henrietta  stammered. 

"Ay,  after  dark!"  the  landlady  retorted.  "Thafs 
English,  isn't  it  ?  But  never  mind.  Least  said  is  soon- 
est mended.  Where  are  your  shoes?" 

"My  shoes?" 

Mrs.  Gilson  lost  patience,  or  appeared  to  lose  it. 

"That  is  what  I  said,"  she  replied.  "You  give  them 
to  me,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  why  I  want  them.  Ah !" 
catching  sight  of  them  and  bending  her  stout  form  to 
lift  them  from  the  floor.  "Now,  if  you  want  to  know 
what  is  the  matter,  though  I  think  you  know  as  well  as 
the  miller  knows  who  beats  the  meal  sack — you  come 
with  me !  There  is  no  one  on  this  landing.  Come  you, 


186  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 

as  you  are,  to  the  window  at  the  other  end.  'And  you'll 
know  fast  enough,  and  why  they  want  your  shoes." 

"They?"  Henrietta  murmured,  hanging  back  and 
growing  more  alarmed.  It  was  a  pity  that  there  was  no 
man  there  to  see  how  pretty  she  looked  in  her  disorder. 

"Ay,  they !"  the  landlady  answered.  And  a  keen  ear 
might  have  detected  sorrow  as  well  as  displeasure  in  her 
tone.  "There's  many  will  he  poking  their  noses  into  your 
affairs  now  you'll  find — when  it's  too  late  to  prevent 
them.  But  do  you  come,  young  woman!"  She  led  the 
way  along  the  landing  to  a  window  which  looked  down 
on  the  side-garden.  After  a  hrief  hesitation  Henrietta 
followed,  her  face  grown  sullen.  Alas !  when  she  reached 
the  window  it  needed  but  a  look  to  enlighten  her. 

One  of  the  things,  which  she  had  feared  the  previous 
day,  had  come  to  pass !  A  little  snow  had  fallen  while 
she  was  absent  from  the  house;  so  very  little  that  she 
had  not  noticed  it.  But  it  had  lain,  and  on  its  white 
surface  was  published  this  morning  in  damning  char- 
acters the  story  of  her  flittings  to  and  fro.  And  worse, 
early  as  it  was,  the  story  had  readers !  Leaning  on  the 
garden  wicket  were  two  or  three  men  discussing  the  ap- 
pearances, and  pointing  and  arguing ;  and  forty  or  fifty 
yards  along  the  road  towards  Bowness,  a  man,  bent 
double,  was  tracing  the  prints  of  her  feet,  as  if  he  fol- 
lowed a  scent. 

It  was  for  that,  then,  that  they  wanted  her  shoes.  She 
understood,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  indignation.  It 
was  an  outrage !  An  insult ! 

"What  is  it  to  them?"  she  cried.    "How  dare  they!" 

Mrs.  Gilson  looked  keenly  at  her  under  her  vast  bushy 
eyebrows. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  you'll  find  they'll  dare  a 


THE  EDGE  OP  THE  STORM  187 

mort  more  than  that  before  they've  done,  my  girl.  And 
what  they  want  to  know  they'll  learn.  These,"  coolly 
lifting  the  shoes  to  sight,  "are  to  help  them." 

"But  why  should  they — what  is  it  to  them  if  I " 

she  stopped,  unwilling  to  commit  herself. 

"You  listen  to  me  a  minute,"  the  landlady  said. 
"You've  brought  your  pigs  to  a  poor  market,  that's 
plain:  and  there  is  but  one  thing  can  help  you  now, 
and  that  is  a  clean  breast.  Now  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  it!  There's  nought  else  can  help  you,  I  say  again, 
and  that  I  tell  you!  It's  no  child's  play,  this!  The 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  as 
they  say  at  the  assizes,  is  the  only  thing  for  you,  if  you 
don't  want  to  be  sorry  for  it  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 

She  spoke  so  seriously  that  Henrietta  when  she  an- 
swered took  a  lower  tone;  though  she  still  protested. 

"What  is  it  to  any  one,"-  she  asked,  "if  I  was  out  of 
the  house  last  night?" 

"It's  little  to  me,"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered  drily.  "But 
it  will  be  much  to  you  if  you  don't  tell  the  truth.  Your 
own  conscience,  my  girl,  should  speak  loud  enough." 

"My  conscience  is  clear!"  Henrietta  cried.  But  her 
tone,  a  little  too  heroic,  fitted  ill  with  her  appearance. 

At  any  rate  Mrs.  Gilson,  who  did  not  like  heroics, 
thought  so.  "Then  the  best  thing  you  can  do,"  she  re- 
plied tartly,"  is  to  go  and  dress  yourself !  A  clear  con- 
science! Umph!  Give  me  clean  hands!  And  if  I 
were  you  I'd  be  quite  sure  about  that  conscience  before 
I  came  down  to  answer  questions." 

"I  shall  not  come  down." 

"Then  they'll  come  up,"  the  landlady  retorted.  "And 
'twon't  be  more  pleasant.  You'd  best  think  twice  about 
that." 


188  THE  EDGE  OP  THE  STORM 

Henrietta  was  thinking.  Behind  the  sullen,  pretty 
face  she  was  thinking  that  if  she  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it,  she  must  betray  the  man.  She  must  say  where  she 
had  seen  him,  and  why  she  had  gone  to  meet  him.  And 
that  was  the  thing  which  she  had  resolved  not  to  do — 
the  thing  which  she  was  still  determined  not  to  do. 
There  is  a  spice  of  obstinacy  in  all  women :  an  inclina- 
tion to  abide  by  a  line  once  taken,  or  an  opinion  once 
formed.  And  Henrietta,  who  was  naturally  head-strong, 
and  who  had  run  some  risk  the  previous  night  and  gone 
to  some  trouble  that  the  man  might  escape,  was  not 
going  to  give  him  up  to-day.  They  had  found  her  out, 
they  had  driven  her  to  bay.  But  nothing  which  they 
could  do  would  wound  her  half  as  much  as  that  public 
ordeal,  that  confrontation  with  the  man,  that  exhibition 
of  his  unworthiness  and  her  folly,  which  must  follow  his 
capture.  For  the  man  himself,  she  was  so  far  from  lov- 
ing him,  that  she  loathed  him,  she  was  ashamed  of  him. 
But  she  was  not  going  to  betray  him.  She  was  not 
going  to  turn  informer — a  name  more  hateful  then, 
when  blood-money  was  common,  than  now!  She  who 
had  been  kissed  by  him  was  not  going  to  have  his  blood 
on  her  hands ! 

Such  were  her  thoughts ;  to  which  Mrs.  Gilson  had  no 
clue.  But  the  landlady  read  recalcitrancy  in  the  girl's 
face,  and  knowing  some  things  which  Henrietta  did  not 
know,  and  being  at  no  time  one  to  brook  opposition,  she 
took  the  girl  the  wrong  way.  If  she  had  appealed  to 
her  better  feelings,  if  she  had  used  that  influence  with 
her  which  rough  but  real  kindness  had  won,  it  is  possi- 
ble that  she  might  have  brought  Henrietta  to  reason. 
But  the  sight  of  that  sullen,  pretty  face  provoked  the 
landlady.  She  had  proof  of  gross  indiscretion,  she  sus- 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  189 

pected  worse  things,  she  thought  the  girl  unworthy. 
And  she  spoke  more  harshly  to  her  than  she  had  ever 
spoken  before. 

"If  you  were  my  girl,"  she  said  grimly,  "I'd  know 
what  to  do  with  you !  I'd  shake  the  humours  out  of  you, 
if  I  had  to  shake  you  from  now  till  next  week !  Ay,  I 
would !  And.  you'd  pretty  soon  come  to  your  senses  and 
find  your  tongue,  I  warrant !  Didn't  you  pretend  to  me 
and  maintain  to  me  a  week  ago  and  more  that  you'd 
done  with  the  scamp  ?" 

"I  have  done  with  him!"  Henrietta  cried,  red  and 
angry. 

"Ay,  as  the  foot  has  done  with  the  shoe — till  next 
time!"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted,  drawing  her  simile  from 
the  articles  in  her  hand.  "For  shame.  For  shame, 
young  woman!"  severely.  "When  it  was  trussing  to 
that  I  kept  you  here  and  kept  you  out  of  gaol !" 

Henrietta  had  not  thought  of  that  side  of  the  case*; 
and  the  reminder,  finding  a  joint  in  her  armour,  stung 
her. 

"You  don't  know  to* whom  you  are  talking !"  she  cried. 

"I  know  that  I  am  talking  to  a  fool '."-the  landlady 
retorted.  "But  there,"  she  continued  irefully,  "you 
may  talk  to  a  fool  till  you  are  dead  and  'twill  still  be  a 
fool !  So  it's  only  one  bit  of  advice  I'll  give  you.  Yo#i 
dress  and  come  down  or  you'll  be  dragged  down !  And  I 
suppose,  though  you  are  not  too  proud  to  trapse  the  roads 
to  meet  your  Joe — ay,"  raising  her  voice  as  Henrietta 
turned  in  a  rage,  and  fled,  "you  may  slam  the  door,  you 
little  vixen,  for  a  vixen  you  are !  But  you've  heard  some 
of  my  opinion  of  you,  and  you'll  hear  more !  I'm  not 
sure  that  you're  not  a  thorough  bad  'un!"  Mrs.  Gilson 
continued;  lowering  her  voice  again  and  speaking  to 


190  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 

herself — though  her  words  were  still  audible.  "That 
I'm  not!  But  any  way  there'll  be  one  here  by-and-by 
you'll  have  to  listen  to !  And  he'll  make  your  ears  burn, 
my  lady,  or  I'm  mistaken !" 

It  was  bad  enough  to  hear  through  the  ill-fitting  door 
such  words  as  these.  It  was  worse  to  know  that  plainer 
words  might  be  used  downstairs  in  the  hearing  of  man. 
and  maid.  But  Henrietta  had  the  sense  to  know  that 
her  position  would  be  made  worse  by  avoiding  the  issue, 
and  pride  enough  to  urge  her  to  face  it.  She  hastened  to 
dress  herself,  though  her  fingers  shook  with  indignation 
as  well  as  with  cold. 

It  was  only  when  she  was  nearly  ready  to  descend  that 
she  noticed  hojv  large  was  the  crowd  collected  before 
the  inn.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  her  escapade — 
much  as  it  might  interest  the  police  officer — was  the 
cause  of  this.  And  a  chill  of  apprehension,  a  thrill  of 
anticipation  of  she  knew  not  what,  kept  her  for  a  mo- 
ment standing  before  the  window.  She  had  done,  she 
told  herself,  no  harm.  She  had  no  real  reason  to  fear. 
And  yet  she  was  beginning  to  fear.  Anger  was  begin- 
ning to  give  place  to  dismay.  For  it  was  clear  that  some- 
thing out  of  the  common  had  happened;  besides  the 
group  in  the  road,  three  or  four  persons  were  inspecting 
the  boats  drawn  up  on  the  foreshore.  And  on  the  lake 
was  a  stir  unusual  at  this  season.  Half  a  mile  from  the 
shore  a  boat  under  sail  was  approaching  the  landing- 
place  from  the  direction  of  Wray  Woods.  It  was  running 
fast  before  the  bitter  lash  of  the  November  wind  that 
here  and  there  flecked  the  grey  and  melancholy  expanse 
with  breakers.  And  round  the  point  from  the  direction 
of  Ambleside  a  second  boat  was  reaching,  with  the  wind 
on  her  quarter.  She  fancied  that  the  men  in  these  boats 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  191 

made  signs  to  those  on  the  shore;  and  that  the  excite- 
ment grew  with  their  report.  While  she  gazed  two  or 
three  of  the  people  in  the  road  walked  down  to  the  water. 
And  with  a  puckered  brow,  and  a  face  a  shade  paler  than 
usual,  she  hesitated;  wishing  that  she  knew  what  had 
happened  and  was  sure  that  the  stir  had  not  to  do  with 
her. 

She  would  have  preferred  to  wait  upstairs  until  the 
boats  arrived.  But  she  remembered  Mrs.  Gilson's  warn- 
ing. Moreover,  she  was  beginning  to  comprehend — as 
men  do,  and  women  seldom  do — that  there  is  a  force 
which  it  is  futile  to  resist — that  of  the  law.  Sooner  or 
later  she  must  go  down.  So  taking  her  courage  in  both 
hands  she  opened  her  door,  and  striving  to  maintain  a 
dignified  air  she  descended  the  stairs,  and  made  her  way 
past  the  passage  window  to  Mr.  Eogers's  room. 

It  was  empty,  and  first  appearances  were  reassuring. 
Her  breakfast  was  laid  and  waiting,  the  fire  was  cheer- 
ful, the  room  tended  to  encouragement.  But  the  mur- 
mur of  excited  voices  still  rose  from  the  highway  below, 
and  kept  her  uneasy:  and  when  she  went  to  the  side- 
window  to  view  the  scene  of  last  night's  evasion,  she 
stamped  her  foot  with  vexation.  For  where  the  tracks  of 
feet  were  clearest  they  had  been  covered  with  old  boxes 
to  protect  them  from  the  frosty  sunshine  which  the  day 
promised;  and  the  precaution  smacked  so  strongly  of 
the  law  and  its  methods  that  it  had  an  ill  look.  Not 
Eobinson  Crusoe  on  his  desert  island  had  made  a  more 
ridiculous  fuss  about  a  foot-print  or  two ! 

She  was  still  knitting  her  brows  over  the  device  when 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  turned  and  con- 
fronted Bishop.  The  man's  manner  as  he  entered  was 
respectful  enough,  but  he  had  not  waited  for  leave  to 


190  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 

come  in.  And  she  had  a  sickening  feeling  that  he  was 
taking  possession  of  her,  that  he  would  not  leave  her 
again,  that  from  this  time  she  w..s  not  her  own.  The 
gravity  of  the  bluff  red  face  did  not  lessen  this  feeling. 
And  though  she  would  fain  have  asked  him  his  business 
and  challenged  his  intrusion  she  could  .not  find  a  word. 

"I  take  it,  you'd  as  soon  see  me  alone,  miss,"  he  said. 
And  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  "You'd  best  go  on  with  your  break- 
fast, for  you  look  a  bit  peaky — you're  a  bit  shaken,  I 
expect,  by  what  has  happened.  But  don't  you  be  afraid," 
with  something  like  a  wink,  "there's  no  harm  will  hap- 
pen to  yow  if  you  are  sensible.  Meanwhile  I'll  talk  to 
you,  by  your  leave,  while  you  eat.  It  will  save  time,  and 
time's  much.  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  as  she  forced 
herself  to  take  her  seat  and  pour  out  her  tea,  "there's 
no  need  to  tell  you,  miss,  what  has  happened  ?" 

She  would  have  given  much  to  prevent  her  hand 
shaking,  and  something  to  be  able  to  look  him  in  the 
face.  She  did  succeed  in  maintaining  outward  com- 
posure ;  for  agitation  is  mo-re  clearly  felt  than  perceived. 
But  she  could  not  force  the  colour  to  her  cheeks,  nor 
compel  her  tongue  to  utterance.  And  he  let  her  swallow 
some  tea  before  he  repeated  his  question. 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  need,  miss,  to  tell  you  what  has 
happened  ?" 

"I  do  not  know" — she  murmured — "to  what  you  re- 
fer. You  must  speak  more  plainly." 

"It's  a  serious  matter,"  he  said.  He  appeared  to  be 
looking  into  his  hat,  but  he  was  really  watching  her  over 
its  edge,  "A  serious  matter,  miss,  and  I  hope  you'll  take 
it  as  it  should  be  taken.  For  if  it  goes  beyond  a  point 
the  Lord  only  can  stop  it.  So  if  you  know,  miss,  and 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  193 

have  no  need  to  be  told,  it's  best  for  you  to  be  frank. 
We  know  a  good  deal." 

The  warm  tea  had  given  her  command  of  herself. 

"If  you  mean,"  she  said,  "that  I  was  out  last  night, 
I  was." 

"We  know  that,  of  course." 

"You  have  my  shoes,"  with  a  little  shrug  of  contempt. 

"Yes,  miss,  and  your  footprints !"  he  answered.  "The 
point  on  which  we  want  information — and  the  sooner  we 
have  it  the  better — is,  where  did  you  leave  him?" 

"Where  did  I  leave — whom?"  sharply. 

"The  person  you  met." 

"I  met  no  one." 

The  runner  shook  his  head  gently.  And  his  face  grew 
longer. 

"For  God's  sake,  miss,"  he  said  earnestly,  "don't  fence 
with  me.  Don't  take  that  line !  Believe  me,  if  you  do 
you'll  be  sorry.  Time's  the  thing.  Tell  us  now  and  it 
may  avail.  Tell  us  to-morrow  and  it  may  be  of  no  use. 
The  harm  may  be  done." 

She  stared  at  him.    "But  I  met  no  one,"  she  said. 

"There  are  the  footprints,  coming  and  going,"  he 
answered  with  severity.  "It  is  no  use  to  deny  them." 

"A  man's — with  mine?" 

"For  certain." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a.  startled  expression.  But 
gradually  her  face  cleared,  she  smiled. 

"Ah,"  she  said.  "Just  so.  You  have  the  man's  tracks 
coming  and  going  ?  And  mine  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"But  are  not  his  tracks  as  well  as  mine  more  faint 
as  they  go  from  the  house?  More  clear  as  they  come 
back  to  the  house  ?  Because  snow  was  falling  while  I 


194  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM 

was  out  as  well  as  before  I  started.  So  that  he  as  well 
as  I  went  from  the  house  and  returned  to  the  house  I" 

He  frowned.     "I  noticed  that,"  he  said. 

"Then,"  with  a  faint  ring  of  amusement  in  her  tone, 
"you  had  better  search  the  house  for  him." 

The  difficulty  had  occurred  to  Mr.  Bishop  before  he 
entered.  But  it  did  not  fall  in  with  his  theory,  and  like 
many  modern  discoverers  he  had  set  it  on  one  side  as  a 
detail  which  events  would  explain.  Put  to  him  crudely 
it  vexed  him. 

"See  here,  miss,  you're  playing  with  us,"  he  said. 
"And  it  won't  do.  Tell  us  frankly " 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly,"  she  answered,  cutting  him 
short  with  spirit,  "whose  tracks  they  are.  They  are  Mr. 
Button's.  Now  you  know.  And  Mr.  Sutton  is  the  only 
person  I  saw  last  night.  Now  you  know  that  too.  And 
perhaps  you  will  leave  me."  She  rose  as  she  finished. 

"Mr.  Sutton  was  with  you?" 

"I  have  said  so.  You  have  my  shoes.  Get  his.  What 
I  say  is  easily  tested  and  easily  proved." 

She  had  the  pleasure  of  a  little  triumph.  The  runner 
looked  taken  aback  and  ashamed  of  himself.  But  after 
the  first  flush  of  astonishment  he  did  not  waste  a  min- 
ute. He  turned,  opened  the  door,  and  disappeared. 

Henrietta  listened  to  his  departing  steps,  then  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  she  returned  to  her  breakfast.  Her  spirits 
rose.  She  felt  that  she  had  exaggerated  her  troubles; 
that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  alarmed  without 
cause.  The  landlady's  rudeness,  rather  than  any  real 
perplexity  or  peril,  had  imposed  on  her.  Another  time 
she  would  not  be  so  lightly  frightened.  For,  after  all, 
she  had  done  nothing  of  which  even  Mr.  Sutton,  if  he 
told  the  truth,  could  make  much.  They  might  suspect 


HE    TOUCHED    HIS    BROW    WITH    HIS    WHIP    HANDLE 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM  195 

that  she  had  stolen  out  to  meet  Walterson;  but  as  she 
had  not  met  him,  they  could  prove  nothing.  They  might 
conclude  from  it,  that  he  was  in  the  neighbourhood ;  but 
as  Bishop  already  held  that  belief,  things  were  left  where 
they  were  before.  Except,  to  be  sure,  that  for  some  rea- 
son she  had  lost  the  landlady's  favour. 

The  girl  had  arrived  at  this  comfortable  stage  in  her 
reasoning  when  the  shuffling  of  feet  along  the  passage 
informed  her  that  Bishop  was  returning.  Nor  Bishop 
only.  He  brought  with  him  others,  it  was  clear,  and 
among  them  one  heavy  man  in  boots — she  caught  the 
harsh  ring  of  a  spur.  Who  were  they  ?  Why  were  they 
coming  ?  Involuntarily  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  waited 
with  a  quickened  heart  for  their  appearance. 

The  sounds  that  reached  her  were  not  encouraging. 
One  of  the  men  stumbled,  and  growled  an  oath ;  and  one 
laughed  a  vulgar  common  laugh  as  at  some  jest  in  doubt- 
ful taste.  Then  the  door  opened  wide,  and  with  little 
ceremony  they  followed  one  another  into  the  room,  one, 
two,  three. 

Bishop  first,  with  his  bluff,  square  face.  Then  a 
stranger,  a  tall  bulky  man,  heavy-visaged  and  bull-dog 
jawed,  with  harsh,  over-bearing  eyes.  He  wore  an  open 
horseman's  coat,  and  under  it  a  broad  leather  belt  with 
pistols;  and  he  touched  his  brow  with  his  whip-handle 
in  a  half  familiar,  half  insolent  way.  After  him  came 
the  pale,  peaky  face  of  Mr.  Sutton,  who  looked  chap- 
fallen  and  ashamed  of  himself. 

The  moment  all  had  entered, 

"Mr.  Chaplain,  close  the  door,"  said  the  stranger  in 
a  broad  Lancashire  accent,  and  with  an  air  of  authority. 
"Now,  Bishop,  suppose  you  tell  the  young  lady — damme, 
what's  that?"  turning  sharply,  "Who  is  it?" 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

MR.   JOSEPH   NADIN 

THE  words  were  addressed  to  Mr.  Sutton,  who  did 
not  seem  able  to  shut  the  door.  But  the  answer  came 
from  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

"By  your  leave," — the  voice,  a  little  breathless,  was 
Mrs.  Gilson's — "I'm  coming  in  too."  And  she  came  in 
at  that,  and  brusquely.  "I  think  you  are  over  many 
men  for  one  woman,"  she  continued,  setting  her  cap 
straight,  and  otherwise  not  a  whit  discomposed  by  the 
men's  attitude.  "You'll  want  me  before  you  are  done, 
you'll  see." 

"Want  you?"  the  strange  man  answered  with  sarcasm. 
"Then  when  we  want  you  we'll  send  for  you." 

"No  you'll  not,  Joe  Nadin,"  she  retorted,  coolly,  as 
she  closed  the  door  behind  her.  "For  I'll  be  here.  What 
you  will  be  wanting,"  with  a  toss  of  her  double  chin, 
"will  be  wit.  But  that's  not  to  be  had  for  the  sending." 

Nadin — he  was  the  deputy-constable  of  Manchester, 
and  the  most  famous  police  officer  of  that  day,  a  man 
as  warmly  commended  by  the  Tory  party  as  he  was 
fiercely  hated  by  the  Radicals — would  have  given  an 
angry  answer.  But  Bishop  was  before  him. 

"Let  her  be,"  he  said — with  friendly  deference.  "We 
may  want  her,  as  she  says.  And  the  young  lady  is  wait- 
ing. Now,  miss,"  he  continued,  addressing  Henrietta, 
who  stood  at  the  table  trying  to  hide  the  perturbation 
which  these  preliminaries  caused  her,  "I've  brought  Mr. 

196 


MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN  197 

Sutton  to  tell  .us  in  your  presence  what  he  knows.  I 
doubt  it  won't  go  far.  So  that  when  we  have  heard  him 
we  shall  want  a  good  deal  from  you." 

"Ay,  from  you,  young  lady,"  the  Manchester  man 
struck  in,  taking  the  word  out  of  the  other's  mouth. 
"It  will  be  your  turn  then.  And  what  we  want  we  must 
have,  or " 

"Or  what?"  she  asked,  with  an  air  of  dignity  that  sat 
strangely  on  one  so  young.  They  did  not  guess  how  her 
heart  was  beating ! 

"Or  'twill  be  Appleby  gaol!"  he  answered.  "That's 
the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  There's  an  end  of  shilly- 
shallying! You've  to  make  your  choice,  and  time's 
precious.  But  the  reverend  gentleman  has  first  say. 
Speak  up,  Mr.  Chaplain!  You  followed  this  young 
lady  last  night  about  ten  o'clock?  Very  good.  Now 
what  did  you  see  and  hear  ?" 

Mr.  Sutton  looked  miserably  downcast.  But  he  was 
on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma,  and  while  he  knew  that  by 
speaking  he  forfeited  all  chance  of  Henrietta's  favour, 
he  knew  that  he  must  speak :  that  he  had  no  choice.  Ob- 
stinate as  he  could  be  upon  occasion,  in  the  grasp  of 
such  a  man  as  Nadin  he  succumbed.  He  owned  that  not 
the  circumstances  only  but  the  man  were  too  strong  for 
him.  Yet  he  made  one  effort  to  stand  on  his  own  legs. 
"I  think  Miss  Darner  would  prefer  to  tell  the  tale  her- 
self," he  said,  with  a  spark  of  dignity.  "In  that  case 
I  have  nothing  to  say." 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  Henrietta  answered, 
her  lip  curling.  And  she  looked  at  him  as  she  would 
have  looked  at  Judas. 

"Still,"  he  murmured,  with  a  side-glance  at  Nadin, 
"if  you  would  be  advised  by  me " 


198  MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  said  curtly. 

"Mind  you,  I've  told  her  nothing."  Mrs.  Gilson  said, 
intervening  in  time  to  prevent  an  outburst  on  Nadin's 
part.  "I.  was  bid  to  get  her  shoes,  and  I  got  her  shoes. 
I  held  my  tongue." 

"Then  she  knows  nothing !"  the  chaplain  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  she  knows  enough,"  Nadin  struck  in,  his  harsh, 
dogmatic  nature  getting  the  better  of  him.  "If  she  did 
not  know  we  should  not  come  to  her.  We  know  our  busi- 
ness. Now,  where's  the  man  hiding  ?  For  there  the  boy 
will  be.  Where  did  you  leave  him,  my  lass?" 

Mr.  Sutton,  whom  circumstances  had  forced  into  a 
part  so  distasteful,  saw  a  chance  of  helping  the  girl ;  and 
even  of  reinstating  himself  in  some  degree  in  her  eyes. 

"I  can  answer  that,"  he  said.  " She  did  not  meet  him. 
The  young  lady  went  to  the  bottom  of  Troutbeck  Lane, 
where,  I  understand,  the  boat  came  to  land.  But  there 
was  no  one  there  to  meet  her.  And  she  came  back  with- 
out seeing  any  one.  I  can  vouch  for  that.  And  that," 
the  chaplain  continued,  throwing  out  his  chest,  and 
speaking  with  dignity,  "is  all  that  Miss  Darner  did,  and 
I  can  speak  to  it." 

Nadin  exploded. 

"Don't  tell  me  that  she  went  to  the  place  for  nothing, 
man!" 

"I  tell  you  only  what  happened,"  the  chaplain  an- 
swered, sticking  to  his  point.  "She  saw  no  one,  and 
spoke  to  no  one." 

"Hang  me  if  I  don't  think  you  are  in  with  her!" 
Nadin  replied  in  an  insulting  tone.  And  then  turning 
to  Henrietta,  "Now  then,  out  with  it !  Where  is  he?" 

But  Henrietta,  battered  by  the  man's  coarse  voice  and 
manner,  still  held  her  ground. 


MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN  199 

"If  I  knew  I  should  not  tell  you,"  she  said. 

"Then  you'll  go  to  Appleby  gaol!" 

"And  still  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

"Understand!  Understand!"  Nadin  replied.  "I've 
a  warrant  here  granted  in  Lancashire  and  backed  here 
and  in  order !  A  warrant  to  take  him.  You  can  see  it  if 
you  like.  Don't  say  I  took  advantage  of  you.  I'm 
rough,  but  I'm  square,"  he  continued,  his  broad  dialect 
such  that  a  Southerner  would  not  have  understood  him. 
"The  lads  know  me,  and  you'll  know  me  before  we've 
done !" 

"Then  it  won't  be  for  your  wisdom!"  Mrs.  Gilson 
muttered.  And  then  more  loudly,  "Why  don't  you  tell 
her  what's  been  done?  Happen  she  knows,  and  happen 
she  doesn't.  If  she  does  'tis  all  one.  If  she  doesn't 
you're  talking  to  deaf  ears." 

Nadin  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  struck  his  boot 
with  his  whip. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "an  old  lass  with  a  long  tongue  will 
have  her  way  i'  Lancashire  or  where  it  be!  Tell  her 
yourself.  But  she  knows,  I  warrant !" 

Mrs.  Gilson  also  thought  so,  but  she  was  not  sure. 

"See  here,  miss,"  she  said,  "you  know  Captain  dyne's 
son?" 

Henrietta's  colour  rose  at  the  name. 

"Of  course  you  do,"  the  landlady  continued,  "for  if 
all's  true  you  are  some  sort  of  connection.  Then  you 
know,  Miss,  that  he's  the  apple  of  his  father's  eye,  and 
the  more  for  being  a  lameter  ?" 

Henrietta  could  not  hear  Anthony  Clyne's  name  with- 
out agitation ;  without  vague  apprehensions  and  a  sense 
of  coming  evil.  Why  did  they  bring  in  the  name  ?  And 
what  were  they  going  to  tell  her  about  the  boy — of  whom 


200  MR-    JOSEPH  NADIN 

in  the  old  days  she  had  been  contemptuously  jealous? 
She  felt  her  face  burn  under  the  gaze  of  all  those  eyes 
fixed  on  it.  And  her  own  eyes  sank. 

"Well,"  she  muttered  indistinctly,  "what  of  him? 
What  has  he  to  do  with  this  ?" 

"He  is  missing.    He  has  been  stolen." 

"Stolen?" 

Her  tone  was  one  of  sharp  surprise. 

"He  was  carried  off  last  night  by  two  men,"  Bishop 
struck  in.  "  His  nurse  was  returning  to  the  house  near 
Newby  Bridge — hard  on  nightfall,  when  she  met  two 
men  on  the  road.  They  asked  the  name  of  the  place, 
heard  what  it  was,  and  asked  who  the  child  was.  She 
told  them,  and  they  went  one  way  and  she  another,  but 
before  she  reached  home  they  overtook  her,  seized  her 
and  bound  her,  and  disappeared  with  the  boy.  It  was 
dusk  and  she  might  have  lain  in  the  ditch  and  died.  But 
the  servants  in  the  house  went  out  when  she  did  not  re- 
turn and  found  her/'  He  looked  at  Nadin.  "That's  so, 
isn't  it?" 

"Ay,  that's  it,"  the  other  answered,  nodding.  "You've 
got  it  pat." 

"When  she  could  speak,  the  alarm  was  given,  they 
raised  the  country,  the  men  were  traced  to  Newby 
Bridge.  There  we  know  a  boat  met  them  and  took  them 
off.  And  the  point,  miss,  is  not  so  much  where  they 
landed,  for  that  we  know — 'twas  at  the  bottom  of  Trout- 
beck  Lane ! — as  where  they  are  now." 

She  had  turned  pale  and  red  and  pale  again,  while  she 
listened.  Astonishment  had  given  place  to  horror,  and 
resentment  to  pity.  In  women,  even  the  youngest,  there 
is  a  secret  tenderness  for  children;  and  the  thought  of 
this  child,  cast  lame  and  helpless  into  the  hands  of 


MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN  201 

strangers,  and  exposed,  in  place  of  the  care  to  which  he 
had  been  accustomed  all  his  life,  to  brutality  and  hard- 
ships, pierced  the  crust  of  jealousy  and  melted  the 
woman's  heart.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  through 
the  tears  indignation  burned.  For  a  moment  even  the 
insult  which  Anthony  Clyne  had  put  upon  her  was  for- 
gotten. She  thought  only  of  the  father's  misery,  his 
suspense,  his  grief.  She  yearned  to  him. 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  "the  wretches !"  And  her  voice  rang 
bravely.  "But — but  why  are  you  here?  Why  do  you 
not  follow  them  ?" 

Nadin's  eyes  met  Bishop's.    He  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"Because,  miss/'  he  said,  "we  think  there's  a  shorter 
way  to  them.  Because  we  think  you  can  tell  us  where 
they  are  if  you  choose." 

"I  can  tell  you  where  they  are  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  miss.  We  believe  that  you  can — if  you  choose. 
And  you  must  choose." 

The  girl  stared.  Then  slowly  she  comprehended.  She 
grasped  the  fact  that  they  addressed  the  question  to  her, 
that  they  believed  that  she  was  at  one  with  the  men  who 
had  done  this.  And  a  change  as  characteristic  of  her 
nature  as  it  was  unexpected  by  those  who  watched  her, 
swept  over  her  face.  Her  features  quivered,  and,  even  as 
when  Anthony  dyne's  proposal  wounded  her  pride  to  the 
quick,  she  turned  from  them,  and  bowing  her  head  on 
her  hands  broke  into  weeping. 

They  were  all  taken  aback.  They  had  looked  some 
for  one  thing,  some  for  another ;  some  for  rage  and  scorn, 
some  for  sullen  denial.  No  one  had  foreseen  this  break- 
down. Nor  was  it  welcome.  Nadin  found  himself 
checked  on  the  threshold  of  success,  and  swore  under  his 
breath.  Bishop,  who  had  broken  a  lance  with  her  before, 


202  MR.    JOSEPH  NADIN    - 

and  was  more  or  less  tender-hearted,  looked  vexed.  Mr. 
Sutton  showed  open  distress — her  weeping  hurt  him, 
and  at  every  quiver  of  her  slight,  girlish  figure  he  winced. 
While  Mrs.  Gilson  frowned;  perhaps  at  the  clumsiness 
and  witlessness  of  men-folk.  But  she  did  not  interfere, 
and  the  chaplain  dared  not  interfere:  and  Nadin  was 
left  to  deal  with  the  girl  as  he  pleased. 

"There,  miss/'  he  said,  speaking  a  little  less  harshly, 
"tears  mend  no  bones.  And  there's  one  thing  clear  in 
this  and  not  to  be  denied — the  men  who*  have  taken  the 
lad  are  friends  of  your  friend.  And  not  a  doubt  he's  in 
it.  We've  traced  them  to  a  place  not  three  hundred 
yards  from  here.  They've  vanished  where  he  vanished, 
and  there's  no  need  of  magic  to  tell  that  the  same  hole 
hides  all.  I  was  on  the  track  of  the  men  with  a  warrant 

— for  they  are  d d  Radicals  as  ever  were! — when 

they  slipped  off  and  played  this  pretty  trick  by  the  way. 
Whether  they  have  kidnapped  the  lad  out  of  revenge,  or 
for  a  hostage,  I'm  in  the  dark.  But  put-up  job  or  not, 
you  are  not  the  young  lady  to  back  up  such  doings.  I 
see  that  with  half  an  eye,"  he  added  cunningly,  '"and 
therefore " 

"Have  you  got  it  from  her?" 

Nadin  turned  with  a  frown — the  interruption  came 
from  Mr.  Horny  old.  The  justice  had  just  entered,  and 
stood  booted,  spurred,  and  pompous  on  the  threshold. 
He  carried  his  heavy  riding-whip,  and  was  in  all  points 
ready  for  the  road. 

"No,  not  yet,"  Nadin  answered  curtly,  "but " 

'''You'd  better;  let  me  try  her,  then,"  the  magistrate 
rejoined,  all  f  ussiness  and  importance.  "  There's  no  time 
to  be  lost.  We're  getting  together.  I've  a  dozen  mount- 
ed men  in  the  yard,  and  they  are  coming  in  from  Rydal 


MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN  203 

side.  We  shall  have  two  score  in  an  hour.  We'll  have 
the  hills  scoured  before  nightfall,  and  long  before  Cap- 
tain Clyne  is  here." 

"Quite  so,  squire,"  Nadin  replied  drily.  "But  if  the 
young  lady  will  tell  us  where  the  scoundrel  lies  we'll  be 
spared  the  trouble.  Now,  miss,"  he  continued,  forget- 
ting, under  the  impetus  of  Hornyold's  manner,  the  more 

diplomatic  line  he  had  been  following,  "we've  a  d d 

clear  case  against  you,  and  that's  flat.  We  can  trace  you 
to  where  they  landed  last  night,  and  we  know  that  you 
were  there  within  a  few  minutes  of  the  time;  for  we've 
their  footsteps  from  the  boat  to  the  wood  above  the  road, 
and  your  footsteps  from  the  boat  to  the  inn.  There  is 
as  much  evidence  of  aiding  and  abetting  as  would  trans- 
port a  dozen  men!  So  do  you  be  wise,  and  tell  us 
straight  off  what  we  want." 

But  two  words  had  caught  her  ear. 

"Aiding  and  abetting?"  she  muttered.  And  she 
turned  her  eyes,  still  bright  with  tears,  upon  him.  Her 
flushed  face  and  ruffled  hair  gave  her  a  strangely  child- 
ish appearance.  "Aiding  and  abetting?  Do  you  mean 
that  you  think  that  I — that  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
taking  the  child?" 

"No,  no,"  Bishop  murmured  hurriedly,  and  cast  a 
warning  look  at  his  colleague.  "No,  no,  not  knowing- 
ly." 

"Nay,  but  that  depends,"  Nadin  persisted  obstinately. 
His  fibre  was  coarser,  and  his  perceptions  were  less  acute. 
It  was  his  habit  to  gain  his  ends  by  fear,  and  he  was  un- 
willing to  lose  the  hold  he  had  over  her.  "That  de- 
pends," he  repeated  doggedly.  "If  you  speak  and  tell 
us  all  you  know,  of  course  not.  But  if  you  do  not  speak, 
we  shall  take  it  against  you." 


204  MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN 

"You  will  take  it,"  she  cried,  "that  I — I  helped  to 
steal  the  child?" 

"Just  so,  if  you  don't  speak,"  Nadin  repeated,  disre- 
garding his  fellow's  signals.  Firmness,  he  was  sure,  was 
all  that  was  needed.  Just  firmness. 

She  was  silent  in  great  agitation.  They  suspected 
her !  Oh,  it  was  wicked,  it  was  vile  of  them !  She 
would  not  have  touched  a  hair  of  the  child's  head. 
And  they  suspected  Walterson;  but  it  might  be  as 
falsely,  it  must  be  as  falsely.  Yet  if  she  gave  him 
up,  even  if  he  were  innocent  he  would  suffer.  He 
would  suffer  on  other  charges,  and  she  would  have 
his  blood  on  her  hands  though  she  had  so  often,  so 
often,  resolved  that  she  would  not  be  driven  to 
that! 

They  asked  too  much  of  her.  They  asked  her  to  be- 
tray the  man  to  death  on  the  chance — and  she  did  not 
believe  in  the  chance — that  it  would  restore  the  child 
to  its  father.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  the  child, 
as  she  thought  of  Anthony  Clyne's  grief ;  she  would  wil- 
lingly have  done  much  to  help  the  one  and  the  other. 
But  they  asked  too  much.  If  it  were  anything  short  of 
the  man's  life  that  they  asked,  she  would  be  guided,  she 
would  do  as  they  bade  her.  But  this  step  was  irrevoca- 
ble: and  she  was  asked  to  take  it  on  a  chance.  Possibly 
they  did  not  themselves  believe  in  the  chance.  Possibly 
they  made  the  charge  for  their  own  purposes,  their  aim 
to  get  the  man  into  their  power,  the  blood-money  into 
their  purse.  She  shuddered  at  that  and  found  the  di- 
lemma cruel.  But  she  had  no  doubt  which  course  she 
must  follow.  No  longer  did  any  thought  of  herself  or 
of  the  annoyances  of  his  arrest  weigh  with  her :  thought 
of  the  child  had  outweighed  all  that.  But  she  would 


MR.   JOSEPH  NADIN  205 

not  without  proof,  without  clear  proof,  have  the  man's 
blood  on  her  hands. 

And  regarding  them  with  a  pale  set  face, 

"If  you  have  proof,"  she  said,  "that  he — Walterson — " 
she  pronounced  the  name  with  an  effort — "was  con- 
cerned in  carrying  off  the  child,  I  will  speak. " 

"Proof  ?"ISradin  barked. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "If  you  can  satisfy  me  that  he  was 
privy  to  this — I  will  tell  you  all  I  know." 

Nadin  exploded. 

"Proof?"  he  cried  with  violence.  "Why,  by  G — d, 
was  he  not  at  the  place  where  we  know  the  men  landed  ? 
And  didn't  you  expect  to  meet  him  there  ?  And  at  the 
very  hour?" 

"He  was  not  there,"  she  cried. 

"But " 

"And  I  was  there,"  she  continued,  "yet  I  know  noth- 
ing. I  am  innocent." 

"Umph !  I  don't  know  !"  Nadin  growled. 

"But  I  do,"  she  replied.  "If  your  proof  comes  only  to 
that — -" 

"But  the  men  who  took  the  child  are  old  mates  of 
his!" 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  returned.  "You  did  not 
see  them.  They  may  not  be  the  men  you  wished  to  ar- 
rest. But,"  scornfully,  "I  see  what  kind  of  proof  you 
have,  and  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

"Come,  miss,"  Bishop  said,  staying  with  difficulty 
Nadin's  furious  answer.  "Come,  miss,  think!  Think 
again.  Think  of  the  child !" 

"Oh,  sink  the  child,"  the  Manchester  officer  struck  in. 
He  had  seldom  been  so  handled.  "Think  of  yourself !" 

"You  will  send  me  to  prison  ?"  she  said. 


206  MR-   JOSEPH  NADIN 

"By  heaven  we  will!"  he  answered.  And  Mr. 
Hornyold  nodded. 

"It  must  be  so,  then,"  she  replied  with  dignity.  "I 
shall  not  speak.  I  have  no  right  to  speak." 

They  all  cried  out  on  her,  Bishop  and  Mr.  Sutton  ap- 
pealing to  her,  Nadin  growling  oaths,  Mr.  Hornyold 
threatening  that  he  would  make  out  the  warrant  that 
minute.  Only  the  landlady,  with  her  apron  rolled  round 
her  arms,  stood  grim  and  silent;  a  looker-on  whose  taci- 
turnity presently  irritated  Nadin  heyond  bearing.  "I 
suppose  you  think,"  he  said,  turning  to  her,  "that  you 
could  have  handled  her  better?" 

"I  couldn't  ha'  handled  her  worse!"  the  landlady  re- 
plied. 

"You  think  yourself  a  Solomon!"  he  sneered. 

"A  girl  of  ten's  a  Solomon  to  you!"  the  landlady  re- 
torted keenly.  "It  canna  be  for  this,  it  surely  canna  be 
for  this,  Joe  Nadin,  that  they  pay  you  money  at  Man- 
chester, and  that  'tis  said  you  go  in  risk  of  your  life! 
Why,  that  Bishop,  London  chap  as  he  is,  is  a  greybeard 
beside  you.  He  does  know  that  Bluster  is  a  good  dog 
but  Softly  is  better !" 

"Well,  as  I  live  by  bread  I'll  have  her  in  the  Stone 
Jug !"  he  retorted.  "And  then  we'll  see !" 

"There's  another  will  see  before  you!"  Mrs.  Gilson 
answered  drily.  "And  it  strikes  me  he's  not  far  off. 
If  you'd  left  her  alone  for  just  an  hour  and  seen  what 
his  honour  Captain  Clyne  could  do  with  her,  you'd  have 
shown  your  sense!"  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "Now,  I 
fear  you've  spoiled  his  market,  my  lad !" 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

AT  THE  FARM 

IT  was  night,  and  the  fire,  the  one  generous  thing  in 
the  house-place  at  Starvecrow  Farm,  blazed  fitfully ;  cast- 
ing its  light  now  on  Walterson's  brooding  face  as  he 
stooped  over  the  heat,  now  on  the  huddled  shrunken 
form  that  filled  the  farther  side  of  the  hearth.  As  the 
flames  rose  and  fell,  the  shadows  of  the  two  men  danced 
whimsically  behind  them.  At  one  moment  they  sprang 
up,  darkening  the  whole  smoke-grimed  ceiling  and  seem- 
ing to  menace  the  persons  who  gave  them  birth,  at  an- 
other they  sank  into  mere  hop-o'-my-thumbs,  lurking  in 
ambush  behind  the  furniture.  There  was  no  other  light 
in  the  room ;  it  was  rarely  the  old  skinflint  suffered  an- 
other. And  to-night  the  shutters  were  closed  and  barred 
that  even  the  reflection  of  the  blaze  might  not  be  seen 
without  and  breed  suspicion. 

The  younger  man's  face,  when  the  firelight  rested  on 
it,  betrayed  not  only  his  present  anxiety,  but  the  deep 
lines  of  past  fear  and  brooding.  He  was  no  longer 
spruce  and  neat  and  close-shaven ;  he  was  no  longer  the 
dandy  who  had  turned  a  feather-head — for  there  was 
little  in  this  place  to  encourage  cleanliness.  Confine- 
ment and  suspense  had  sharpened  his  features ;  his  eyes 
were  harder  and  brighter  than  of  old,  and  the  shallow 
tenderness  which  had  fooled  Henrietta  no  longer  floated 

207 


208  AT  THE  FARM 

on  their  depths.  A  nervous  impatience,  a  peevish  irri- 
tability showed  in  his  every  movement;  whether  he 
raised  his  hand  to  silence  the  old  man's  crooning,  or  fell 
again  to  biting  his  nails  in  moody  depression.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  be  confined  in  this  squalid  hole  with  an 
imbecile  driveller,  and  to  spend  long  hours  without  other 
company.  It  was  worse  to  know  that  beyond  its  thresh- 
old the  noose  dangled,  and  the  peril  which  he  had  so  long 
and  so  cleverly  evaded  yawned  for  him. 

To  do  Walterson  justice,  it  was  not  entirely  for  his 
own  safety  that  he  was  concerned  as  he  sat  over  the  fire 
and  listened — starting  at  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  and  find- 
ing in  every  sough  of  the  wind  the  step  of  a  friend  or 
foe.  He  was  a  heartless  man.  He  would  not  have  scru- 
pled to  ruin  the  innocent  girl  who  trusted  him :  nay,  in 
thought  and  intention  he  had  ruined  her  as  he  had 
ruined  others.  But  he  could  not  face  without  a  shudder 
what  might  be  happening  at  this  moment  by  the  water- 
side. He  could  not  picture  without  shame  what,  if  the 
girl  escaped  there,  would  happen  here;  when  they  drag- 
ged her  through  the  doorway,  bound  and  gagged  and  at 
the  mercy  of  the  jealous  vixen  who  dominated  him.  Se- 
cretly he  was  base  enough  to  hope  that  what  they  did  they 
would  do  in  the  darkness,  and  not  terrify  him  with  the 
sight  of  it.  For  if  they  brought  her  here,  if  they  con- 
fronted him  with  her,  how  loathly  a  figure  he  must  cut 
even  in  his  own  eyes !  How  poor  and  dastardly  a  thing 
he  must  seem  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  whose  will  he  did 
and  to  whose  vengeance  he  consented. 

The  sweat  rose  on  his  brow  as  he  pondered  this ;  as  he 
looked  with  terrified  eyes  at  the  door  and  fancied  that  the 
scene  was  already  playing,  that  he  saw  her  dragged  into 
that  vile  place,  that  he  met  her  look.  Passionately  he 


AT  THE  FARM  209 

wished — as  we  all  wish  in.  like  but  smaller  cases — that 
he  had  never  seen  either  of  the  women,  that  he  had 
never  played  the  fool,  or  that  if  he  must  play  the  fool  he 
had  chosen  some  other  direction  in  which  to  escape  with 
Henrietta.  But  wishing  was  useless.  Wishing  would 
not  remove  him  into  safety  or  comfort,  would  not  re- 
lieve him  from  the  consequences  of  his  misdeeds,  would 
not  convert  the  skulking  imbecile  who  faced  him  into 
decent  company.  And  even  while  he  indulged  his  re- 
gret, he  heard  the  tread  of  men  outside,  and  he  stood  up. 
A  moment  later  the  signal,  three  knocks  on  the  shutter, 
informed  him  that  the  crisis  which  he  had  been  expect- 
ing and  dreading,  was  come — was  come ! 

Delay  would  not  help  him ;  the  old  man,  mowing  and 
chattering,  was  already  on  his  feet.  He  went  to  the  door 
and  with  a  hang-dog  face  opened  it.  The  long  bar  which 
ran  all  its  length  into  the  wall  was  scarcely  clear,  when 
a  woman,  swaddled  to  her  eyes  in  a  thick  drugget  shawl, 
pushed  in.  It  was  Bess.  After  her  came  a  tall  man 
cloaked  and  booted,  followed  by  two  others  t>f  lower 
stature  and  meaner  appearance.  The  last  who  entered 
bore  something  in  his  arms,  a  pack,  a  bundle — Walter- 
son,  shuddering,  could  not  see  which.  For  as  Bess  with 
the  same  show  of  haste  with  which  she  had  entered,  be- 
gan to  secure  the  door  against  the  cold  blast,  that  blew 
the  spares  in  clouds  up  the  chimney,  the  cloaked  man 
addressed  him. 

"You're  Walterson?  Ah,  to  be  sure,  we've  met — once, 
I  think.  Well,"  he  spoke  in  a  harsh,  peremptory  tone — 
"you'll  be  good  enough  to  note,"  he  turned  and  pointed 
to  the  other  men,  "that  I  have  naught  to  do  with  this ! 
I've  neither  hand  nor  part  in  it!  And  I'll  ask  you  to 
remember  that." 


210  AT  THE  FARM 

Walterson,  with  a  pallid  face  and  shrinking  eyes, 
looked  at  the  man  with  the  bundle. 

"What  is  it?"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  Oh,  stow  this !"  Bess  cried,  turning  brusquely  from 
the  door  which  she  had  secured.  "The  gentleman  is  very 
grand  and  mighty,"  shrugging  her  shoulders,  "but  the 
thing  is  done  now.  And  I'll  warrant  if  good  comes  of  it 
he'll  not  be  too  proud  to  take  his  share." 

"Not  /,  girl !"  the  tall  man  answered.    "Not  I !" 

He  took  off  as  he  spoke  his  cloak  and  hat,  and  showed 
a  tall,  angular  figure  borne  with  military  stiffness.  His 
face  was  sallow  and  long,  and  his  mouth  wide;  but  the 
plainness  or  ugliness  of  his  features  was  redeemed  by 
their  power,  and  by  the  light  of  enthusiasm  which  was 
never  long  absent  from  his  sombre  eyes.  A  kind  of  aloof- 
ness in  speech  and  manner  showed  that  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  living  among  inferiors.  And  not  only  the  men 
who  came  with  him,  but  Walterson  himself  seemed  in 
his  presence  of  a  meaner  mould  and  smaller  sort. 

His  two  companions  were  stout,  short-built  men  of  a 
coarse  type.  But  Walterson  after  a  single  glance,  paid 
no  heed  to  them.  His  eyes,  his  thoughts,  his  attention 
were  all  on  the  bundle.  Yet,  it  was  not  possible,  it  could 
not  be  what  he  dreaded.  It  was  too  small,  too  small! 
And  yet  he  shuddered. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  uncertain  accents. 

"The  worth  of  a  man's  neck,  may  be,"  one  of  the  two 
men  grunted. 

"Oh,  curse  your  may-be's !"  the  other  who  carried  the 
child  struck  in.  "It's  a  smart  bit  of  justice,  master, 
with  no  may-be  about  it!  And  came  in  our  way  just 
when  we  were  ready  for  it.  Let's  look  at  the  kid." 


AT  THE  FARM 

"The  kid?" 

Walterson  repeated  the  words,  and  opened  his  mouth 
dumb-founded.  He  looked  at  Thistlewood. 

The  tall  man,  who  was  warming  his  back  at  the  fire, 
shrugged  his  square  shoulders. 

"I've  naught  to  do  with  it !"  he  said.    "Ask  them  I" 

"Don't  you  know  what  a  kid  is?"  Giles,  one  of  the 
two  others,  retorted,  with  a  glance  of  contempt.  "A 
kinchin!  a  yelper!  It's  Squire  dyne's,  if  you  must 
know.  He'll  learn  now  what  it  is  to  see  your  children 
trodden  under  foot  and  your  women-kind  slashed  and 
cut  with  sabres !  He's  ground  the  faces  of  the  poor  long 

enough!  D n  him,  he's  as  bad  as  Castlereagh,  the 

devil!  But,  hallo!"  breaking  off.  "If  I  don't  think, 
mate,  you've  squeezed  his  throat  a  bit  too  tight!" 

He  had  unwound  the  wrappings  and  disclosed  the  still 
and  inanimate  form  of  a  boy  about  six  years  old,  but 
small  for  his  age.  The  thin  bloodless  hands  were 
clenched,  the  head  hung  back,  the  eyes  were  half -closed ; 
and  the  tiny  face  showed  so  deathly  white — among  those 
tanned  faces  and  in  that  grimy  place — that  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  the  man  fancied  for  a  moment  that  the 
child  was  dead. 

But,  "Not  I!"  the  one  who  had  carried  it  answered 
contemptuously.  "It's  swooned,  like  enough.  And  I'd 
to  stop  it  shrieking,  hadn't  I  ?  Let  the  lass  look  to  it." 

Bess  took  it  but  reluctantly — with  an  ill  grace  and  no 
look  of  tenderness  or  pity.  She  was  of  those  women  who 
love  no  children  but  their  own,  and  sometimes  do  not 
love  their  own.  While  she  sprinkled  water  on  the  poor 
little  face  and  rubbed  the  small  hands,  Walterson  found 
his  voice. 

''What  folly — what  cursed  folly  is  this  ?"  he  cried,  his 


212  AT  THE  FARM 

words  vibrating  with  rage.  "What  have  we  to  do  with 

the  child  or  your  vengeance,  or  this  d d  folly — that 

you  should  bring  the  hunt  upon  us?  We  were  snug 
here." 

"And  ain't  we  snug  now?"  Lunt,  the  man  who  had 
carried  the  child,  asked. 

"Snug?  We'll  be  snug  behind  bars  in  twenty- 
four  hours!"  Walterson  rejoined,  his  voice  rising 
almost  to  a  scream,  "if  that  child  is  Squire  dyne's 
child !" 

"Oh,  he's  that  right  enough,  master,"  Giles,  the  other 
man,  struck  in.  A  kind  of  ferocious  irony  was  natural  to 
him. 

"Then  you'll  have  the  whole  country  on  us  before  noon 
to-morrow !"  Walterson  retorted.  "I  tell  you  he'll  follow 
you  and  track  you  and  find  you,  if  he  follows  you  to 
hell's  gate !  I  know  the  man." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Thistlewood  coolly.  "And  I  say  the 
same." 

"Yet,"  Giles  retorted  impudently,  "you've  got  a  neck 
as  well  as  another." 

"You  can  leave  my  neck  out  of  the  question,"  Thistle- 
wood  replied.  "And  me!"  And  he  turned  his  back  on 
them  contemptuously. 

"Well,  you've  got  a  neck,"  Giles  answered,  addressing 
Walterson,  who  was  almost  hysterical  with  rage.  "And 
I  suppose  you  have  some  care  for  it,  if  he  has  none!" 
with  a  gesture  of  the  thumb  in  Thistlewood's  direction. 
"You'd  as  soon  as  not,  keep  your  neck  unstretched,  I 
suppose?" 

"Sooner,"  Bess  said,  flinging  a  glance  of  contempt  at 
her  lovep.  "Here,  let  me  teach  him,"  she  continued 
bluntly;  the  child  had  begun  to  murmur  in  a  low,  pain- 


AT  THE  FARM  213 

fill  note.  "They  came  on  the  kid  by  chance  and  snatched 
it,  and  we've  put  ten  miles  of  water  between  the  place 
and  us." 

"And  snow  on  the  ground !"  Walterson  retorted,  point- 
ing to  the  thin  powder  that  still  lay  white  in  the  folds 
of  her  shawl. 

"We  came  up  through  the  wood,*  she  answered. 
"  Trust  us  for  that !  But  thaf  s  not  the  point.  The  point 
is,  that  your  pink-and-white  fancy-girl  never  came.  She'd 
more  sense  than  I  thought  she  had.  But  you  were  wil- 
ling to  snatch  her,  my  lad.  And  why  is  the  risk  greater 
with  the  child?" 

"But » 

"It's  less,"  the  girl  continued,  before  he  could  put  his 
objection  into  words.  "It's  less,  I  tell  you,  for  the 
child's  more  easily  tucked  away.  I've  a  place  we  can  put 
it,  where  they'll  not  find  it  if  they  search  for  a  twelve- 
month !" 

"They'll  soon  search  here,"  he  said  sullenly.  "There's 
not  a  house  they'll  not  search  if  they  trace  the  boat. 
Nor  a  bothy  on  the  hills." 

"May  be,"  she  answered  confidently.  "But  when  they 
search  you'll  not  be  here,  nor  the  kid.  ISTor  in  a  bothy !" 

"If  you  are  going  to  trust  Tyson " 

"You  leave  that  to  me,"  she  replied,  bending  her 
brows. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  silenced. 

"He'll  sell  you!"  he  cried.  "He'll  sell  you!  He'll 
give  you  fair  words  and  you  think  you  can  fool  him. 
But  when  he  comes  to  know  there's  a  reward  out,  and 
what  he'll  suffer  if  he  is  found  hiding  us,  and  when  he 
knows  that  all  the  country  is  up — and  for  this  child 
they'd  hang  us  on  the  nearest  tree — he'll  give  us  up  and 


AT  THE  FARM 

you  too.  Though  you  do  think  you  have  bewitched  him. 
And  so  I  tell  all  here !"  he  added  passionately. 

With  a  dark  look,  "Stow  it,  my  lad,"  she  said,  as  he 
paused  for  want  of  breath.  "And  leave  Tyson  to  me." 

But  the  men  who  had  listened  to  the  debate  looked 
something  startled.  They  glanced  at  one  another,  and 
at  last  Thistlewood  spoke. 

"Is  this  Tyson,"  he  asked,  "the  man  at  whose  house 
you  said  we  should  be  better  than  here,  my  girl  ?" 

"  That's  him,"  Bess  answered  curtly. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to  tell  us  a  bit 
more.  I  don't  want  to  be  sold." 

"I  am  of  that  way  of  thinking  myself,  captain,"  Lunt 
growled.  "If  the  man  has  no  finger  between  the  jamb 
and  the  door,  you  can't  be  sure  that  he  won't  shut  it. 
No,  curse  me,  you  can't!  There's  other  Olivers  besides 
him  who  has  sold  a  round  dozen  of  us  to  Government. 
Til  slit  the  throat  of  the  first  police  spy  that  comes  in 
my  way !" 

"And  yet  you  trust  me!"  the  girl  flung  at  him,  her 
eyes  scornful.  To  her  they  all,  all  seemed  cowards. 

"Ay,  but  you  are  a  woman,"  Giles  answered.  "And 
though  I'm  not  saying  there's  no  Polly  Peachums,  I've 
not  come  across  them.  Treat  a  maid  fair  and  she'll  treat 
you  fair,  that's  the  common  way  of  it.  She'll  not  stretch 
you,  for  anything  short  of  another  wench.  But  a  man ! 
He's  here  and  there  and  nowhere." 

"That's  just  where  this  man  is,"  she  answered  curtly. 

"Where?" 

"Nowhere," 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"He's  cut  his  lucky.  He's  gone  to  Carlisle  to  see  his 
brother  and  keep  his  skin  safe — for  a  week.  He's  like  a 


AT  THE  FARM  215 

good  many  more  I  know,"  with  a  glance  which  embraced 
every  man  in  the  room:  "willing  to  eat  but  afraid  to 
bite." 

"But  he  has  left  his  house?" 

"That's  it." 

"And  who's  in  it?" 

"His  wife,  no  one  else.  And  she's  bedridden  with  a 
babby,  seven  days  old." 

"What !    And  no  woman  with  her  ?" 

"There  was,"  Bess  answered,  "but  there  isn't.  I  quar- 
relled with  the  serving-lass  this  afternoon,  and  at  sunset 
to-day  she  was  to  go.  If  she  comes  back  to-morrow  I'll 
send  her  packing  with  a  flea  in  her  ear !" 

"But  who " 

"Gave  me  leave  to  send  her?"  defiantly.    "He  did." 

Thistiewood  smiled. 

"And  the  wife ?"  he  asked.    " Whaf U  she  say ?" 

"Say?  She'd  not  say  boh  to  a  goose  if  it  hissed  at 
her!"  Bess  answered  contemptuously.  "She's  a  pale, 
fat  caterpillar,  afraid  of  her  own  shadow !  She'll  whine 
a  bit,  for  she  don't  love  me — thinks  I'll  poison  her  some 
fine  day  for  the  sake  of  her  man.  But  she's  upstairs  and 
there's  no  one,  but  nor  ben,  to  hear  her  whine;  and  at 
daybreak  I'll  be  there,  tending  her.  Isn't  it  the  natural 
thing,"  and  she  smiled  darkly,  "with  this  the  nearest 
house?" 

"Curse  me,  but  you're  a  clever  lass !"  Giles  cried.  And 
even  Thistlewood  seemed  to  feel  no  pity  for  the  poor 
woman,  left  helpless  with  her  babe.  "I  don't  know," 
the  ruffian  continued,  "that  I'm  not  almost  afraid  of  you 
myself !" 

"And  you  think  that  house  will  not  be  searched?" 

"Why  should  it  be  searched?"  Bess  answered.    "Ty- 


216  AT  THE  FARM 

son's  well  known.  And  if  they  do  search  it,"  she  contin- 
ued confidently,  "there's  a  place — it's  not  of  the  bright- 
est, but  it'll  do,  and  you  must  lie  there  days — that  they'll 
not  find  if  they  search  till  Doomsday !" 

Walterson  alone  eyed  her  gloomily. 

"And  what  is  the  child  in  this?"  he  said. 

"The  kid,  my  lad?  Why,  everything.  You  fine  gen- 
tlemen can't  stay  here  for  ever,  and  when  you  go  north 
or  south  or  east  or  west,  the  kid'll  stay  here  until  you're 
safe.  And  if  you  don't  come  safe,  he's  a  card  you'll  be 
glad  to  have  the  use  of  to  clear  your  necks,  my  lads !" 

Thistlewood  turned  on  his  heel  again. 

"I'll  none  of  it,"  he  said,  dark  and  haughty.  "It's 
no  gentleman's  game,  this  !" 

"Gentleman  be  hanged !"  cried  Giles,  and  Lunt  echoed 
him.  "Do  you  call" — with  temper — "what  you  were  for 
this  morning  a  gentleman's  game  ?  Do  you  call  killing  a 
dozen  unarmed  men  round  a  dinner-table  a  gentleman's 
game?" 

"It's  our  lives  against  theirs!"  Thistlewood  answered 
with  a  sombre  glance.  "And  the  odds  with  them,  and  a 
rope  if  we  fail !  Wrong  breeds  wrong,"  he  continued,  his 
voice  rising — as  if  already  he  spoke  in  his  defence. 
"Did  they  wait  until  we  were  armed  before  they  rode  us 
down  at  Manchester  ?  or  at  Paisley  ?  or  at  Glasgow  ?  No ! 
And,  I  say,  they  must  be  removed,  no  matter  how.  They 
must  be  removed !  They  are  the  head  and  front  of  of- 
fence, the  head  and  front  of  this  damnable  system  under 
which  no  man  thafs  worth  ten  pounds  does  wrong,  and 
no  poor  man  does  right !  From  King  to  tradesman  they 
stand  together.  But  kill  a  dozen  at  the  top,  and  you 
stop  the  machine !  You  terrify  the  traders  that  find  the 
money !  You  bring  over  to  our  side  all  that  is  timid  and 


AT  THE  FARM  217 

fearful  and  fond  of  ease — and  that's  nine  parts  of  the 
country !  For  myself,"  extending  his  arms  in  a  gesture 
of  menace,  "I'd  as  soon  cut  the  throats  of  Castlereagh 
and  Liverpool  and  Harrowby  as  I'd  cut  the  throats  of  so 
many  calves !  And  sooner,  by  G — d !  Sooner !  But 
for  messing  with  children  I'll  none  of  it !  I've  said  my 
say."  And  he  turned  again  to  the  fire. 

The  girl,  as  he  stirred  the  logs  with  his  boot-heel,  eyed 
him  strangely;  and  in  her  heart  she  approved  not  his 
arguments,  but  his  courage.  Here  was  what  she  had 
sighed  for — a  man !  Here  was  what  she  thought  that  she 
had  found  in  Walterson — a  man !  And  Walterson  him- 
self approved  in  his  heart;  and  envied  the  strong  man 
who  dared  to  speak  out  where  he  with  his  life  at  stake 
dared  not.  The  thing  was  cruel,  was  dastardly.  But 
then — it  might  save  his  neck  f  For  the  others,  they  were 
too  low,  too  brutish  to  be  much  moved  by  Thistlewood's 
words. 

"Ah,  but  we've  got  necks  as  well  as  you!"  Giles  mut- 
tered. "And  if  we  risk  'em  to  please  you,  we'll  save  'em 
the  way  we  please !" 

Then,  "Look  at  the  kid!"  Lunt  muttered.  "He's 
hearing  too  much,  and  picking  it  up.  Stow  it  for  now !" 

The  girl  turned  to  the  child  which  she  had  laid  on  the 
bed.  Thistlewood  had  knocked  the  fire  together,  and  the 
blaze,  passing  by  him,  fell  upon  the  wide-open  eyes  that 
from  the  bed  regarded  the  scene  with  a  look  of  silent 
terror,  a  look  that  seemed  uncanny  to  more  than  one. 
Had  the  boy  wept  or  screamed,  or  cried  for  help,  had  it 
given  way  to  childish  panic  and  tried  to  flee,  they  had 
thought  nothing  of  it.  They  had  twitched  it  back, 
hushed  it  by  blow  or  threat,  and  cursed  it  for  a  nuisance. 
But  this  passive  terror,  this  self-restraint  at  so  tender  an 


218  AT  THE  FARM 

age,  struck  the  men  as  unnatural,  and  taken  with  its 
small  elfish  features  awoke  qualms  in  the  more  supersti- 
tious. 

"Curse  the  child!"  said  one,  staring  at  it.  "I  think 
ifs  bewitched !" 

"See  if  it  will  eat,"  said  another.  "Bewitched  chil- 
dren never  eat." 

Some  bread  was  fetched  and  milk  put  to  it — though 
Bess  set  nothing  by  such  notions — and,  "You  eat  that, 
do  you  hear !"  the  girl  said.  "Or  we'll  give  you  to  that 
old  man  there,"  pointing  with  an  undutiful  finger  to  the 
squalid  figure  of  the  old  miser.  "And  he'll  take  you  to 
his  bogey-hole!" 

The  child  shook  pitifully,  and  the  fear  in  its  eyes 
deepened  as  it  regarded  the  loathsome  old  man.  With  a 
sigh  that  seemed  to  rend  the  little  heart,  it  took  the  iron 
spoon,  and  strove  to  swallow.  The  spoon  tinkled  vio- 
lently against  the  bowl. 

"I'll  manage  him,"  Bess  said  with  a  look  of  triumph. 
"You  will  see,  I'll  have  him  so  in  two  days  that  he'll  not 
dare  to  say  who  he  is,  if  they  do  find  him !  You  leave 
him  to  me,  and  I'll  sort  the  little  imp !" 

Perhaps  the  child  knew  that  he  had  fallen  among  his 
father's  enemies.  Perhaps  he  knew  only  that  in  a  sec- 
ond his  world  was  overset  and  he  cast  on  the  mercy  of 
the  ogres  he  saw  about  him.  As  he  looked  fearfully 
round  the  gloomy,  fire-lit  room  with  its  lights  and  black 
shadows,  a  single  large  tear  rolled  from  each  eye  and  fell 
into  the  coarse  earthen-ware  bowl.  And  for  an  instant 
he  seemed  about  to  choke.  Then  he  went  on  eating. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PROOF  POSITIVE 

ANTHONY  CLYNE  had  made  no  moan,  but,  both  in  his 
pride  and  his  better  feelings,  he  had  suffered  more  than 
the  world  thought  through  Henrietta's  elopement.  He 
was  not  in  love  with  the  girl  whom  he  had  chosen  for  his 
second  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  motherless  child.  But 
no  man  likes  to  be  jilted.  No  man,  even  the  man  least 
in  love,  can  bear  with  indifference  or  without  mortifica- 
tion the  slur  which  the  woman's  desertion  casts  on  him. 
At  best  there  are  invitations  to  be  cancelled,  and  servants 
to  be  informed,  and  plans  to  be  altered ;  the  condolences 
of  some  and  the  smiles  of  others  are  to  be  faced.  And 
many  troubles  and  much  bitterness.  The  very  boy,  the 
apple  of  his  eye  and  the  core  of  his  heart,  had  to  be  told 
— something. 

And  Anthony  Clyne  was  proud.  No  man  in  Lan- 
cashire set  more  by  his  birth  and  station,  or  had  a 
stronger  sense  of  his  personal  dignity;  so  that  in  do- 
ing all  these  things  he  suffered.  He  suffered  much. 
Nor  did  it  end  with  that.  His  own  world  knew  him,  and 
took  care  not  to  provoke  him  by  a  tactless  word  or  an  in- 
quisitive question.  But  the  operatives  in  his  neighbour- 
hood, who  hated  him  and  feared  him,  and  thanked  God 
for  aught  that  hurt  him,  gibed  him  openly.  Taunts  and 
jests  were  flung  after  him  in  the  streets  of  Manchester; 
and  men  whose  sweethearts  had  been  flung  down  or 
roughly  used  on  the  day  of  Peterloo  inquired  after  his 
sweetheart  as  he  passed  before  the  mills. 

219 


220  PROOF  POSITIVE 

But  he  made  no  sign.  And  no  one  dreamed  that  the 
suffering  went  farther  than  the  man's  pride,  or  touched 
his  heart.  Yet  it  did.  Not  that  he  loved  the  girl ;  but 
because  she  was  of  his  race,  and  because  her  own  branch 
of  the  family  cast  her  off,  and  because  the  man  with 
whom  she  had  fled  could  do  nothing  to  protect  her  from 
the,  consequences  of  her  folly.  For  these  reasons — and  a 
little  because  of  a  secret  nobility  in  his  own  character — 
he  suffered  vicariously;  he  felt  himself  responsible  for 
her.  And  the  responsibility  seemed  more  heavy  after 
he  had  seen  her ;  after  he  had  borne  away  from  Winder- 
mere  the  picture  of  the  girl  left  pale  and  proud  and 
lonely  by  the  lake  side. 

For  her  figure  haunted  him.  It  rose  before  him  in 
the  most  troublesome  fashion  and  at  the  most  improper 
times ;  at  sessions  when  he  sat  among  his  peers,  or  at  his 
dinner-table  in  the  middle  of  a  tirade  against  the  radi- 
cals and  Cobbett.  It  touched  him  in  the  least  expected 
and  most  tender  points;  awaking  the  strongest  doubts 
of  himself,  and  his  conduct,  and  his  wisdom  that  he  had 
ever  entertained.  It  barbed  the  dart  of  "It  might  have 
been"  with  the  rankling  suspicion  that  he  had  himself 
to  thank  for  failure.  And  where  at  first  he  had  said  in 
his  haste  that  she  deserved  two  dozen,  he  now  remem- 
bered her  defence,  and  added  gloomily,  "Or  I !  Or  I !" 
The  thought  of  her  fate — as  of  a  thing  for  which  he  was 
responsible — thrust  itself  upon  him  in  season  and  out  of 
season.  He  could  not  put  her  out  of  his  mind,  he  could 
not  refrain  from  dwelling  on  her.  And  thinking  in  this 
way  he  grew  every  day  less  content  with  the  scheme  of 
life  which  he  had  framed  for  her  in  his  first  contempt 
for  her.  The  notion  of  her  union  with  Mr.  Sutton,  good, 
worthy  man  as  he  deemefl.  the  chaplain,  now  jarred  on 


PROOF  POSITIVE  221 

him  unpleasantly.  And  more  and  more  the  scheme 
showed  itself  in  another  light  than  that  in  which  he  had 
first  viewed  it. 

Such  was  his  state  of  mind,  unsettled  if  not  unhappy, 
and  harassed  if  not  remorseful,  when  a  second  thunder- 
clap burst  above  his  head,  and  in  a  moment  destroyed 
even  the  memory  of  these  minor  troubles.  He  loved  his 
child  with  the  love  of  the  proud  and  lonely  man  who 
loves  more  jealously  where  others  pity,  and  clings  more 
closely  where  others  look  askance.  A  fig  for  their  pity ! 
he  cried  in  his  heart.  "He  would  so  rear  his  child,  he 
would  so  cherish  him,  he  would  so  foster  his  mind,  that 
in  spite  of  bodily  defect  this  latest  of  the  Clynes  should 
be  also  the  greatest.  And  while  he  foresaw  this  future  in 
the  child  and  loved  him  for  the  hope,  he  loved  him  im- 
measurably more  for  his  weakness,  his  helplessness,  his 
frailty  in  the  present.  All  that  was  strong  in  the  man 
of  firm  will  and  stiff  prejudice  went  out  to  the  child  in  a 
passionate  yearning  to  protect  it;  to  shield  it  from  un- 
friendly looks,  even  from  pity;  to  cover  it  from  the 
storms  of  the  world  and  of  life. 

Personally  a  brave  man  Clyne  feared  nothing  for  him- 
self. The  hatred  in  which  he  was  held  by  a  certain  class 
came  to  his  ears  from  time  to  time  in  threatening  mur- 
murs, but  though  those  who  knew  best  were  loudest  in 
warning,  he  paid  no  heed.  He  continued  to  do  what  he 
held  to  be  his  duty.  Yet  if  anything  had  had  power  to 
turn  him  from  his  path  it  had  been  fear  on  his  son's 
account;  it  had  been  the  very,  very  small  share  which 
the  boy  must  take  in  his  peril.  And  so,  at  the  first  hint 
he  had  removed  the  child  from  the  zone  of  trouble,  and 
sent  him  to  a  place  which  he  fancied  safe ;  a  place  which 
the  boy  loved,  and  in  the  quiet  of  which  health  as  well 


222  PROOF  POSITIVE 

as  safety  might  be  gained.  If  the  name  of  Clyne  was 
hated  where  spindles  whirled  and  shuttles  flew,  and  men 
lived  their  lives  under  a  pall  of  black  smoke,  it  was  loved 
in  Cartmel  by  farmer  and  shepherd  alike;  and  not  less 
by  the  rude  charcoal-burners  who  plied  their  craft  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods  about  Staveley  and  Broughton  in 
Furness. 

On  that  side  he  thought  himself  secure.  And  so  the 
blow  fell  with  all  the  force  of  the  unexpected.  The  sum- 
mons of  the  panic-stricken  servants  found  him  in  his 
bed;  and  it  was  a  man  who  hardly  contained  himself, 
who  hardly  contained  his  fury  and  his  threats,  who  with- 
out breaking  his  fast  rode  north.  It  was  a  hard-faced, 
stern  man  who  crossed  the  sands  at  Cartmel  at  great  risk 
— but  he  had  known  them  all  his  life — and  won  at  Car- 
ter's Green  the  first  spark  of  comfort  and  hope  which  he 
had  had  since  rising.  Nadin  was  before  him.  Nadin 
was  in  pursuit, — Nadin,  by  whom  all  that  was  Tory  in 
Lancashire  swore.  Surely  an  accident  so  opportune,  a 
stroke  of  mercy  and  providence  so  unlikely — for  the  odds 
against  the  officer's  presence  were  immense — could  not 
be  unmeant,  could  not  be  for  nothing!  It  seemed,  it 
must  be  of  good  augury !  But  when  Clyne  reached  his 
house  in  Cartmel,  and  the  terrified  nurse  who  knew 
the  depth  of  his  love  for  the  boy  grovelled  before  him, 
the  household  had  no  added  hope  to  give  him,  no  news 
or  clue.  And  he  could  but  go  forward.  His  horse  was 
spent,  but  they  brought  him  a  tenant's  colt,  and  after 
eating  a  few  mouthf uls  he  pressed  on  up  the  lake  side  to- 
wards Bowness,  attended  by  a  handful  of  farmers'  sons 
who  had  not  followed  on  the  first  alarm. 

Even  now,  hours  after  the  awakening,  and  when  any 
moment  might  end  his  suspense,  any  turn  in  the  road 


PROOF  POSITIVE  323 

bring  him  face  to  face  with  the  issue — good  or  bad,  joy 
or  sorrow — he  dared  not  think  of  the  child.  He  dared 
not  let  his  mind  run  on  its  fear  or  its  suffering,  its  ter- 
rors in  the  villains'  hands,  or  the  hardships  which  its 
helplessness  might  bring  upon  it.  To  do  so  were  to  try 
his  self-control  too  far.  And  so  he  thought  the  more  of 
the  men,  the  more  of  vengeance,  the  more  of  the  hour 
which  would  see  him  face  to  face  with  them,  and  see 
them  face  to  face  with  punishment.  He  rejoiced  to 
think  that  abduction  was  one  of  the  two  hundred 
crimes  which  were  punishable  with  death:  and  he 
swore  that  if  he  devoted  his  life  to  the  capture  of  these 
wretches  they  should  be  taken.  And  when  taken,  when 
they  had  been  dealt  with  by  judge  and  jury,  they  should 
be  hanged  without  benefit  of  clergy.  There  should  be 
no  talk  of  respite.  His  services  to  the  party  had  earned 
so  much  as  that — even  in  these  days  when  radicals  were 
listened  to  over  much,  and  fanatics  like  Wolseley  and 
Burdett  flung  their  wealth  into  the  wrong  scale. 

At  Bowness  there  was  no  news  except  a  word  from 
Nadin  bidding  him  ride  on.  And  without  alighting  he 
pressed  on,  sternly  silent,  but  with  eyes  that  tirelessly 
searched  the  bleak,  bare  fells  for  some  movement,  some 
hint  of  flight  or  chase.  He  topped  the  hill  beyond  Bow- 
ness,  and  drew  rein  an  instant  to  scan  the  islets  set  here 
and  there  on  the  sullen  water.  Then,  after  marking 
carefully  the  three  or  four  boats  which  were  afloat,  he 
trotted  down  through  Calgarth  woods.  And  on  turning 
the  corner  that  revealed  the  long  gabled  house  at  the  Low 
Wood  landing  he  had  a  gleam  of  hope.  Here  at  last  was 
something,  some  stir,  some  adequate  movement.  In  the 
road  were  a  number  of  men,  twenty  or  thirty,  on  foot  or 
horseback.  A  few  were  standing,  others  were  moving  to 


224  PROOF  POSITIVE 

and  fro.  Half  of  them  carried  Brown  Besses,  blunder- 
busses, or  old  horse-pistols,  and  three  or  four  were  girt 
with  ancient  swords  lugged  for  the  purpose  from  bacon- 
rack  or  oak  chest.  The  horses  of  the  men  matched  as  ill 
as  their  arms,  being  of  all  heights  and  all  degrees  of 
shagginess,  and  some  riders  had  one  spur,  and  some 
none.  But  the  troop  meant  business,  it  was  clear,  and 
Anthony  Clyne's  heart  went  out  to  them  in  gratitude. 
Hitherto  he  had  ridden  through  a  country-side  heedless 
or  ignorant'  of  his  loss,  and  of  what  was  afoot ;  and  the 
tardy  intelligence,  the  slow  answer,  had  tried  him  sorely. 
Here  at  last  was  an  end  of  that.  As  the  honest  dales- 
men, gathered  before  the  inn,  hauled  their  hard-mouthed 
beasts  to  the  edge  of  the  road  to  make  way  for  him,  and 
doffed  their  hats  in  silent  sympathy,  he  thanked  them 
with  his  eyes. 

In  spite  of  his  empty  sleeve  he  was  off  his  horse  in  a 
moment. 

"Have  they  learned  anything?"  he  asked,  his  voice 
harsh  with  suppressed  emotion. 

The  nearest  man  began  to  explain  in  the  slow  north- 
ern fashion.  "No,  not  as  yet,  your  honour.  But  we 
shall,  no  doubt,  i'  good  time.  We  know  that  they  landed 
here  in  a  boat." 

"Ay,  your  honour,  have  no  fear!"  cried  a  second. 
"We'll  get  him  back !" 

And  then  Nadin  came  out. 

"This  way,  if  you  please,  Squire,"  he  said,  touching 
his  arm  and  leading  him  aside.  "We  are  just  starting  to 

scour  the  hills,  but "  he  broke  off  and  did  not  say  any 

more  until  he  had  drawn  Clyne  out  of  earshot. 

Then,  "It's  certain  that  they  landed  here,"  he  said, 
turning  and  facing  him.  "We  know  that,  Squire.  And 


PROOF  POSITIVE  225 

I  fancy  that  they  are  not  far  away.  The  holt  is  some- 
where near,  for  it  is  here  we  lost  the  other  fox.  I'm 
pretty  sure  that  if  we  search  the  hills  for  a  few  hours 
we'll  light  on  them.  But  that's  the  long  way.  And 
damme!"  vehemently,  "there's  a  short  way  if  we  are 
men  and  not  mice." 

Clyne's  eyes  gleamed. 

"A  short  way?"  he  muttered.  In  spite  of  Nadin's 
zeal  the  Manchester  officer's  manner  had  more  than  once 
disgusted  his  patron.  It  had  far  from  that  effect  now. 
The  man  might  swear  and  welcome,  be  familiar,  he  what 
he  pleased,  if  he  would  also  act !  If  he  would  recover  the 
child  from  the  cruel  hands  that  held  it !  His  very  blunt- 
ness  and  burliness  and  sufficiency  gave  hope.  "A  short 
way?"  Clyne  repeated. 

Nadin  struck  his  great  fist  into  the  other  palm. 

"Ay,  a  short  way!"  he  answered.  "There's  a  witness 
here  can  tell  us  all  we  want  if  she  will  but  speak.  I  am 
just  from  her.  A  woman  who  knows  and  can  set  us  on 
the  track  if  she  chooses !  And  we'll  have  but  to  ride  to 
covert  and  take  the  fox." 

Clyne  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked  huskily,  struggling  to  keep 
hope  within  bounds,  "that  there  is  some  one  here — who 
knows  where  they  are?" 

"I  do !"  Nadin  answered  with  an  oath.  "And  knows 
where  the  child  is.  But  she'll  not  speak." 

"Not  speak?" 

"No,  she'll  not  tell.  It's  the  young  lady  you  were  here 
about  before,  Squire,  to  be  frank  with  you." 

"Miss  Darner?"  in  a  tone  of  astonishment. 

"Ay,  Squire,  she!"  Nadin  replied.  "She!  And  the 
young  madam  knows,  d n  her!  It's  all  one  busi- 


226  PROOF  POSITIVE 

ness,  you  may  take  it  from  me!  It's  all  one  gang! 
She  was  at  the  place  where  they  landed  after  dark  last 
night." 

"Impossible!"  Clyne  cried.  Impossible!  I  cannot  be- 
lieve you." 

"Ay,  but  she  was.  She  let  herself  down  from  a  win- 
dow when  the  house  had  gone  to  bed  that  she  might  get 
there.  Ay,  Squire,  you  may  look,  but  she  did.  She  did 
not  meet  them;  she  was  too  soon  or  too  late,  we  don't 
know  which.  But  she  was  there,  as  sure  as  I  am  here ! 
And  I  suspect — though  Bishop,  who  is  a  bit  of  a  softy, 
like  most  of  those  London  men,  doesn't  agree — that  she 
was  in  the  thing  from  the  beginning,  Squire !  And  plan- 
ned it,  may  be,  but  you'd  be  the  best  judge  of  that.  Any 
way,  we  are  agreed  that  she  knows  now.  That  is  clear 
as  daylight !" 

"Knows,  and  will  not  tell?"  Clyne  cried.  Such  con- 
duct seemed  too  monstrous,  too  wicked  to  the  man  who 
had  strained  every  nerve  to  reach  his  child,  who  had  rid- 
den in  terror  for  hours,  trembling  at  the  passage  of  every 
minute,  grudging  the  loss  of  every  second.  "Knows, 
and  will  not  tell !"  he  repeated.  "Impossible!" 

"It's  not  impossible,  Squire,"  Nadin  answered.  "We're 
clear  on  it.  We're  all  clear  on  it." 

"That  she  knows  where  the  child  is?"  incredulously. 
"Where  they  are  keeping  it?"  x 

"That's  it." 

"And  will  not  say?" 

Nadin  grinned. 

"Not  for  us,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "She 
may  for  you.  But  she  is  stubborn  as  a  mule.  I  can't 
say  worse  than  that.  Stubborn  as  a  mule,  Squire !" 

Clyne  raised  his  hand  to  hide  the  twitching  nostril, 


PROOF  POSITIVE  '227 

the  quivering  lip  that  betrayed  his  agitation.  But  the 
hand  shook.  He  could  not  yet  believe  that  she  was  privy 
to  this  wickedness.  But — but  if  she  only  knew  it  now 
and  kept  her  knowledge  to  herself — she  was,  he  dared 
not  think  what  she  was.  A  gust  of  passion  took  him  at 
the  thought,  and  whitened  his  face  to  the  very  lips.  He 
had  to  turn  away  that  the  coarse-grained,  underbred 
man  beside  him  might  not  see  too  much.  And  a  few 
seconds  went  by  before  he  could  command  his  voice  suffi- 
ciently to  ask  Nadin  what  evidence  he  had  of  this — this 
monstrous  charge.  "How  do  you  know — I  want  to  be 
clear — how  do  you  know,"  he  asked,  sternly  meeting  his 
eyes,  "that  she  left  the  house  last  night  to  meet  them? 
That  she  was  there  to  meet  them  ?  Have  you  evidence?" 
He  could  not  believe  that  a  woman  of  his  class,  of  his 
race,  would  do  this  thing. 

"Evidence?"  Nadin  answered  coolly.  "Plenty !"  And 
he  told  the  story  of  the  foot-prints,  and  of  Mr.  Sutton's 
experiences  in  the  night;  and  added  that  one  of  the 
child's  woollen  mits  had  been  found  between  the  bottom- 
boards  of  a  boat  beached  at  that  spot — a  boat  which  bore 
signs  of  recent  use.  "If  you  are  not  satisfied  and  would 
like  to  see  his  reverence,"  he  continued,  "and  question 
him  before  you  see  her — shall  I  send  him  to  you?" 

"Ay,  send  him,"  Clyne  said  with  an  effort.  He  had 
been  incredulous,  but  the  evidence  seemed  overwhelm- 
ing. Yet  he  struggled,  he  tried  to  disbelieve.  Not  be- 
cause his  thoughts  still  held  any  tenderness  for  the  girl, 
or  he  retained  any  remnant  of  the  troublesome  feeling 
that  had  haunted  him;  for  the  shock  of  the  child's  ab- 
duction had  driven  such  small  emotions  from  his  mind. 
But  with  the  country  rising  about  him,  amid  this  gather- 
ing of  men  upon  whom  he  had  no  claim,  but  who  asked 


228  PROOF  POSITIVE 

nothing  better  than  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
authors  of  the  outrage — with  these  proofs  of  public-  sym- 
pathy before  his  eyes  it  seemed  impossible  that  a  woman, 
a  girl,  should  wantonly  set  herself  on  the  other  side,  and 
shield  the  criminals.  It  seemed  impossible.  But  then, 
when  the  first  news  of  her  elopement  with  an  unknown 
stranger  had  reached  him,  he  had  thought  that  impossi- 
ble !  Yet  it  had  turned  out  to  be  true,  and  less  than  the 
fact;  since  the  man  was  not  only  beneath  her,  but  a 
radical  and  a  villain ! 

"But  I  will  see  Sutton,"  he  muttered,  striving  to 
hold  his  rage  in  check.  "I  will  see  Sutton.  Perhaps  he 
may  be  able  to  explain.  Perhaps  he  may  be  able  to  put 
another  face  on  the  matter." 

The  chaplain  would  fain  have  done  so ;  more  out  of  a 
generous  pity  for  the  unfortunate  girl  than  out  of  any 
lingering  hope  of  ingratiating  himself  with  her.  But  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say,  except  that  though  she  had 
gone  to  the  rendezvous  she  had  not  seen  nor  met  any  one. 
He  laid  stress  on  that,  for  he  had  nothing  else  to  plead. 
But  he  had  to  allow  that  her  purpose  had  been  to  meet 
some  one ;  and  at  the  weak  attempt  to  excuse  her  dyne's 
rage  broke  forth. 

"She  is  shameless !"  he  cried.  "Shameless !  Can  you 
say  after  this  that  she  has  given  up  all  dealings  with  her 
lover  ?  Though  she  passed  her  word  and  knows  him  for 
a  married  man  ?" 

The  chaplain  shook  his  head. 

"I  cannot,"  he  said  sorrowfully.  "I  cannot  say  that. 
But " 

"She  gave  her  word!    Tome.    Toothers." 

"I  allow  it.    But " 

"But  what?     What?"  with  hardly  restrained  rage. 


PROOF  POSITIVE  229 

"Will  yon  still,  sir,  take  her  side  against  the  innocent? 
Against  the  child,  whom  she  has  conspired  to  entrap,  to 
carry  off,  perhaps  to  murder  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Mr.  Sutton  cried  in  unfeigned  horror. 
"That  I  do  not  believe !  I  do  not  believe  that  for  an  in- 
stant! I  allow,  I  admit,"  he  continued  eagerly,  "that 
she  has  been  weak,  and  that  she  has  madly,  foolishly 
permitted  this  wretch  to  retain  a  hold  over  her." 

"At  any  rate,"  Clyne  retorted,  his  rage  at  a  white 
heat,  "she  has  lied  to  me!" 

"I  admit  it." 

"And  to  others!" 

The  chaplain  could  only  hold  out  his  hands  in  depre- 
cation. 

"You  will  admit  that  she  has  continued  to  communi- 
cate with  a  man  she  should  loathe?  A  man  whom,  if 
she  were  a  modest  girl,  she  would  loathe  ?  That  she  has 
stolen  to  midnight  interviews  with  him,  leaving  this 
house  as  a  thief  leaves  it  ?  That  she  has  cast  all  modesty 
from  her  ?" 

"Do  not,  do  not  be  too  hard  on  her!"  Sutton  cried, 
his  face  flushing  hotly.  "Captain  Clyne,  I  beg — I  beg 
you  to  be  merciful." 

"It  is  she  who  is  hard  on  herself !  But  have  no  fear," 
Clyne  continued,  in  a  voice  cold  as  the  winter  fells  and 
as  pitiless.  "I  shall  give  her  fifteen  minutes  to  come  to 
her  senses  and  behave  herself — not  as  a  decent  woman, 
I  no  longer  ask  that,  but  as  a  woman,  any  woman,  the 
lowest,  would  behave  herself,  to  save  a  child's  life.  And 
if  she  behaves  herself — well.  And  if  not,  sir,  it  is  not 
I  who  will  punish  her,  but  the  law !" 

"She  will  speak,"  the  chaplain  said.  "I  think  she 
will  speak — for  you." 


230  PROOF  POSITIVE 

He  was  deeply  and  honestly  concerned  for  the  girl: 
and  full  of  pity  for  her,  though  he  did  not  understand 
her. 

"But — suppose  I  saw  her  first?"  he  suggested.  "Just 
for  a  few  minutes  ?  I  could  explain." 

"Nothing  that  I  cannot,"  Captain  Clyne  answered 
grimly.  "And  for  a  few  minutes!  Do  you  not  con- 
sider," with  a  look  of  suspicion,  "that  there  has  been 
delay  enough  already?  And  too  much!  Fifteen  min- 
utes," with  a  recurrence  of  the  hitter  laugh,  "she  shall 
have,  and  not  one  minute  more,  if  she  were  my  sister!" 

Mr.  Sutton's  face  turned  red  again. 

"Eemember,  sir,"  he  said  bravely,  "that  she  was  going 
to  be  your  wife." 

"I  do  remember  it!"  Clyne  retorted  with  a  withering 
glance.  "And  thank  God  for  His  mercy." 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

NADIN  and  the  others  had  not  left  her  more  than  ten 
minutes  when  Henrietta  heard  his  voice  under  the  win- 
dow. She  was  still  flushed  and  heated,  sore  with  the 
things  which  they  had  said  to  her,  hruised  and  battered 
by  their  vulgarity  and  bluster.  Indignation  still  burned 
in  her;  and  astonishment  that  they  could  not  see  the 
case  as  she  saw  it.  The  argument  in  her  own  mind  was 
clear.  They  must  prove  that  Walterson  had  committed 
this  new  crime,  they  must  prove  that  if  she  betrayed  the 
man  she  would  save  the  child — and  she  would  speak. 
Or  she  would  speak  if  they  would  undertake  to  release 
the  man  were  he  not  guilty.  But  short  of  that,  no.  She 
would  not  turn  informer  against  him,  whom  she  had 
chosen  in  her  folly — except  to  save  life.  What  could  be 
more  clear,  what  more  fair,  what  more  logical?  And 
was  it  not  monstrous  to  ask  anything  beyond  this  ? 

She  had  wrought  herself  in  truth  to  an  almost  hys- 
terical stubbornness  on  the  point.  The  romantic  bent 
that  had  led  her  to  the  verge  of  ruin  still  inclined  her 
feelings.  Yet  when  she  heard  the  father's  step  approach- 
ing along  the  passage,  she  trembled.  She  gazed  in  terror 
at  the  door.  The  prospect  of  the  father's  tears,  the 
father's  supplication,  shook  her.  She  had  to  say  to  her- 
self, "I  must  not  tell,  I  must  not !  I  must  not  I"  as  if 
the  repetition  of  the  words  would  strengthen  her  under 

231 


232  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

the  torture  of  his  appeal.  And  when  he  entered,  in  the 
fear  of  what  he  might  say  she  was  before  him.  She  did 
not  look  at  him,  or  heed  what  message  his  face  con- 
veyed— or  she  had  been  frozen  into  silence.  But  in  a 
panic  she  rushed  on  the  subject. 

"I  am  sorry,  oh,  I  am  so  sorry!"  she  cried,  tears  in 
her  voice.  "I  would  do  it,  if  I  could,  I  would  indeed. 
But  I  cannot/'  distressfully,  "I  must  not!  And  I  beg 
you  to  spare  me  your  reproaches." 

"I  have  none  to  make  to  you,"  he  said. 

It  was  his  tone,  rather  than  his  words,  which  cut  her 
like  a  whip. 

"None!"  she  cried.  "Ah,  but  you  blame  me?  I  am 
sure  you  do." 

"I  do  not  blame  you,"  he  replied  in  the  same  cold 
tone.  "My  business  here  has  nothing  to  do  with  re- 
proaches or  with  blame.  I  give  you  fifteen  minutes  to 
tell  me  what  you  know,  and  all  you  know,  of  the  man 
Walterson's  whereabouts.  That  told,  I  have  no  more  to 
say  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  as  one  thunderstruck. 

"And  if  I  do  not  do  that,"  she  murmured,  "within 
fifteen  minutes  ?  If  I  do  not  tell  you  ?" 

"You  will  go  to  Appleby  gaol,"  he  said,  in  the  same 
passionless  tone.  "To  herd  with  your  like,  with  such 
women  as  may  be  there."  He  laid  his  watch  on  the 
table,  beside  his  whip  and  glove;  and  he  looked  not  at 
her,  but  at  it. 

"And  you?    You  will  send  me?"  she  answered. 

"I?"  he  replied  slowly.  '"No,  I  shall  merely  undo 
what  I  did  before.  My  coming  last  time  saved  you  from 
the  fate  which  your  taste  for  low  company  had  earned. 
This  time  I  stand  aside  and  the  result  will  be  the  same 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN          233 

as  if  I  had  never  come.  There  is,  let  me  remind  you,  a 
minute  gone." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  face  colourless,  but  her  eyes 
undaunted.  But  the  look  was  wasted,  for  he  looked  only 
at  his  watch. 

"You  are  come,  then,"  she  said,  her  voice  shaking  a 
little,  "not  to  reproach  me,  but  to  insult  me !  To  out- 
rage me !" 

"I  have  no  thought  of  you,"  he  answered. 

The  words,  the  tone,  lashed  her  in  the  face.  Her  nos- 
trils quivered. 

"You  think  only  of  your  child!"  she  cried. 

"That  is  all,"  he  answered.  And  then  in  the  same 
passionless  tone,  "Do  not  waste  time." 

"Do  not " 

"Do  not  waste  time!"  he  repeated.  "That  is  all  I 
have  to  say  to  you." 

She  stood  as  one  stunned ;  dazed  by  his  treatment  of 
her;  shaken  to  the  soul  by  his  relentless,  pitiless  tone,  by 
his  thinly  veiled  hatred. 

He  who  had  before  been  cold,  precise  and  just  was 
become  inhuman,  implacable,  a  stone.  Presently,  "Three 
minutes  are  gone,"  he  said. 

"And  if  I  tell  you?"  she  answered  in  a  voice  which, 
though  low,  vibrated  with  resentment  and  indignation, 
"if  I  tell  you  what  you  wish  to  know,  what  then  ?" 

"I  shall  save  the  child — I  trust  Certainly  I  shall 
save  him  from  further  suffering." 

"And  what  of  me?" 

"You  will  escape  for  this  time." 

Her  breast  heaved  with  the  passion  she  restrained. 
Her  foot  tapped  the  floor.  Her  fingers  drummed  on  the 
table.  Such  treatment  was  not  fit  treatment  for  a  dog, 


234  COUSIN  MEETS   COUSIN 

much  less  for  a  woman,  a  gentlewoman !  And  his  injus- 
tice !  How  dared  lie !  How  dared  he !  What  had  she 
done  to  deserve  it  ?  Nothing !  No,  nothing  to  deserve 
this. 

Meanwhile  he  seemed  to  have  eyes  only  for  his  watch, 
laid  open  on  the  table  before  him.  But  he  noted  the 
signs,  and  he  fancied  that  she  was  about  to  break  down, 
that  she  was  yielding,  that  in  a  moment  she  would  fall 
to  weeping,  perhaps  would  fall  on  her  knees — and  tell 
him  all.  A  faint  surprise,  therefore,  pierced  his  pitiless 
composure  when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  long  minute,  she 
spoke  in  a  tone  that  was  comparatively  calm  and  de- 
cided. 

"You  have  forgotten,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  I  am  of 
your  blood !  That  I  was  to  be  your  wife !" 

"It  was  you  who  forgot  that !"  he  replied. 

She  had  her  riposte  ready. 

"And  wisely !"  she  answered,  "and  wisely !  How  wisely 
you  have  proved  to  me  to-day — you," — with  scorn  equal 
to  his  own — "who  are  willing  to  sacrifice  me,  a  helpless 
woman,  on  the  mere  chance  of  saving  your  child !  Who 
are  willing  to  send  me,  a  woman  of  your  blood,  to  prison 
and  to  shame,  to  herd — you  have  said  it  yourself — with 
such  vile  women  as  prisons  hold !  And  that  on  the  mere 
chance  of  saving  your  son !  For  shame,  Captain  Clyne, 
for  shame!" 

"You  are  wasting  time,"  he  answered.  "You  have 
eight  minutes." 

"You  are  determined  that  I  shall  go?" 

"Or  speak." 

"Will  you  not  hear,"  she  asked  slowly,  "what  I  have 
to  say  on  my  side  ?  What  reason  I  have  for  not  speak- 
ing? What  excuse?  What  extenuation  of  my  conduct?" 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN         235 

"No,"  he  replied.  "Your  reasons  for  speaking  or  not 
speaking,  your  conduct  or  misconduct,  are  nothing  to 
me.  I  am  thinking  of  my  child." 

"And  not  at  all  of  me?" 

"No." 

"Yet  listen,"  she  said,  with  something  approaching 
menace  in  her  tone,  "for  you  will  think  of  me!  You 
will  think  of  me — presently !  When  it  is  too  late,  Cap- 
tain Clyne,  you  will  rememher  that  I  stood  before  you, 
that  I  was  alone  and  helpless,  and  you  would  not  hear 
my  reasons  nor  my  excuses.  You  will  remember  that  I 
was  a  girl,  abandoned  by  all,  left  alone  among  strangers 
and  spies,  without  friend  or  adviser." 

"I,"  he  said,  coldly  interrupting  her,  "was  willing  to 
advise  you.  But  you  took  your  own  path.  You  know 
that." 

"I  know,"  she  retorted  with  sudden  passion,  "that  you 
were  willing  to  insult  me !  That  you  were  willing  to  set 
me,  because  I  had  committed  an  act  of  folly,  as  low  as 
the  lowest !  So  low  that  all  men  were  the  same  to  me ! 
So  low  that  I  might  be  handed  like  a  carter's  daughter 
who  had  misbehaved  herself,  to  the  first  man  who  was 
willing  to  cover  her  disgrace.  That !  that  was  your  way 
of  helping  me  and  advising  me !" 

"In  two  minutes,"  he  said  in  measured  accents,  "the 
time  will  be  up !" 

He  appeared  to  be  quite  unmoved  by  her  reproaches. 
His  manner  was  as  cold,  as  repellant,  as  harsh  as  ever. 
But  he  was  not  so  entirely  untouched  by  her  appeal  as 
he  wished  her  to  think.  For  the  time,  indeed,  his  heart 
was  numbed  by  anxiety,  his  breast  was  rendered  irsensi- 
ble  by  the  grip  of  suspense.  But  the  barbed  arrows  of 
her  reproaches  stuck  and  remained.  And  presently  the 


236  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

wounds  would  smart  and  rankle,  troubling  his  con- 
science, if  not  his  heart.  It  is  possible  that  he  had  already 
a  suspicion  of  this.  If  so,  it  only  deepened  his  rage  and 
his  hostility. 

With  the  same  pitiless  composure,  he  repeated : 

"In  two  minutes.  There  is  still  time,  but  no  more 
than  time." 

"You  have  told  me  that  you  do  not  wish  to  hear  my 
reasons  ?" 

"For  silence?    I  do  not." 

"They  will  not  turn  you,"  her  voice  shook  under  the 
maddening  sense  of  his  injustice,  "whatever  they  are?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "they  will  not.  And  having  said 
that  I  have  said  all  that  I  propose  to  say." 

"You  condemn  me  unheard?" 

"I  condemn  you?  No,  the  law  will  condemn  you,  if 
you  are  condemned." 

"Then  I,  too,"  she  answered,  with  a  beating  heart — 
for  indignation  almost  choked  her — "have  said  all  that 
I  propose  to  say.  All !" 

" Think !    Think,  girl !"  he  cried. 

She  was  silent. 

He  closed  his  watch  with  a  sharp,  clicking  sound,  and 
put  it  in  his  fob. 

"You  will  not  speak?"  he  said. 

"No !" 

Then  passion,  long  restrained,  long  kept  under,  swept 
him  away.  He  took  a  stride  forward,  and  before  she 
guessed  what  he  would  be  at,  he  had  seized  her  wrist, 
gripping  it  cruelly. 

"But  you  shall ! — you  shall !"  he  cried.  His  face  full 
of  passion  was  close  to  hers,  he  pressed  her  a  pace  back- 
wards. "You  vixen !  Speak  now !"  he  cried.  "Speak !" 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN          237 

"Let  me  go !"  she  cried. 

"Speak  or  I  will  force  it  from  you.    Where  is  he?" 

"I  will  never  speak !"  she  panted,  struggling  with  him, 
and  trying  to  snatch  her  arm  from  him.  "I  will  never 
speak !  You  coward !  Let  me  go  I" 

"  Speak  or  I  will  break  your  wrist,"  he  hissed. 

He  was  hurting  her  horribly. 

But,  "Never!  Never!  Never!"  She  shrieked  the 
word  at  him,  her  face  white  with  rage  and  pain,  her  eyes 
blazing.  "Never,  you  coward.  You  coward!  Let  me 
go!" 

He  let  her  go  then — too  late  remembering  himself. 
He  stepped  back.  Breathing  hard,  she  leant  against  the 
table,  and  nursed  her  bruised  wrist  in  the  other  hand. 
Her  face,  an  instant  before  white,  now  flamed  with  an- 
ger. Never,  never  since  she  was  a  little  child  had  she 
been  so  treated,  so  handled !  Every  fibre  in  her  was  in 
revolt.  But  she  did  not  speak.  She  only,  rocking  her- 
self slightly  to  and  fro,  scathed  him  with  her  eyes.  The 
coward !  The  coward ! 

And  he  was  as  yet  too  angry — though  he  had  remem- 
bered himself  and  released  her — to  feel  much  shame  for 
what  he  had  done.  He  was  too  wrapt  in  the  boy  and 
his  object  to  think  soberly  of  anything  else.  He  went, 
his  hand  shaking  a  little,  his  face  disordered  by  the 
outbreak,  to  the  bell  and  rang  it.  As  he  turned 
again, 

"Your  ruin  be  on  your  own  head !"  he  cried. 

And  he  looked  at  her,  hating  her,  hating  her  rebellious 
bearing. 

He  saw  in  her,  with  her  glowing  cheeks  and  eyes 
bright  with  fury,  the  murderess  of  his  boy.  What  else, 


238  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

since,  if  it  was  not  her  plan,  she  covered  it  ?  Since,  if  it 
was  not  her  deed,  she  would  not  stay  it?  She  must  be 
one  of  those  feminine  monsters,  those  Brinvilliers, 
blonde  and  innocent  to  the  eye,  whom  passion  de- 
graded to  the  lowest!  Whom  a  cursed  infatuation 
made  suddenly  most  base,  driving  them  to  excesses  and 
crimes. 

While  she,  her  breast  boiling  with  indignation,  her 
heart  bursting  with  the  sense  of  bodily  outrage,  of  bodily 
pain,  forgot  the  anguish  he  was  suffering.  She  forgot 
the  provocation  that  had  exasperated  him  to  madness, 
that  had  driven  him  to  violence.  She  saw  in  him  a  cow- 
ardly bully,  a  man  cruel,  without  shame  or  feeling.  She 
fully  believed  now  that  he  had  flogged  a  seaman  to 
death.  Why  not,  since  he  had  so  treated  her  ?  Why  not, 
since  it  was  clear  that  there  was  no  torture  to  which  he 
would  not  resort,  if  he  dared,  to  wring  from  her  the 
secret  he  desired  ? 

And  a  torrent  of  words,  a  flood  of  scathing  reproaches 
and  fierce  home-truths,  rose  to  her  lips.  But  she  re- 
pressed them.  To  complain  was  to  add  to  her  humilia- 
tion, to  augment  her  shame.  To  protest  was  to  stoop 
lower.  And  strung  to  the  highest  pitch  of  animosity 
they  remained  confronting  one  another  in  silence,  until 
the  door  opened  and  Justice  Hornyold  entered,  followed 
by  his  clerk.  After  these  Nadin,  Bishop,  Mr.  Sutton, 
and  two  or  three  more  trooped  in  until  the  room  was 
half  full  of  people. 

It  was  clear  that  they  had  had  their  orders  below,  and 
knew  what  to  expect;  for  all  looked  grave,  and  some 
nervous.  Even  Hornyold  betrayed  by  his  air,  half  sheep- 
ish and  half  pompous^  that  he  was  not  quite  comfortable. 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN  239 

"The  young  lady  has  not  spoken?"  he  said. 

"No,"  Clyne  answered,  breathing  quickly.  He  could 
not  in  a  moment  return  to  his  ordinary  self.  "She  re- 
fuses to  speak." 

"You  have  laid  before  her  reasons  ?" 

He  averted  his  eyes. 

"I  have  said  all  I  can,"  he  muttered  sullenly.  "I 
have  assured  myself  that  she  is  privy  to  this  matter,  and 
I  withdraw  the  informal  undertaking  which  I  gave  a 
fortnight  ago  that  she  should  be  forthcoming  if  wanted. 
Unless,  therefore,  you  are  satisfied  with  the  landlord's 
bail — but  that  is  for  you." 

Mr.  Hornyold  shook  his  head. 

"With  this  new  charge  advanced?"  he  said.  "No,  I 
am  afraid  not.  Certainly  not.  But  perhaps,"  looking 
at  her,  "the  young  lady  will  still  change  her  mind.  To 
change  the  mind" — with  a  feeble  grin — '"is  a  lady's 
privilege." 

"I  shall  not  tell  you  anything,"  Henrietta  said  with  a 
catch  in  her  breath.  She  hid  her  smarting,  tingling 
wrist  behind  her.  She  might  have  complained ;  but  not 
for  the  world  would  she  have  let  them  know  what  he  had 
done  to  her,  what  she  had  suffered. 

Mr.  Sutton,  who  was  standing  in  the  background, 
stepped  forward. 

"Miss  Darner,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  beg  you,  I  im- 
plore you  to  think." 

"I  have  thought,"  she  answered  with  stubborn  anger. 
"And  if  I  could  help  him,"  she  pointed  to  Clyne,  "if  I 
could  help  him  by  lifting  my  finger " 

"Oh,  dear,  dear !"  the  chaplain  cried,  appalled  by  her 
vehemence.  "Don't  say  that!  Don't  say  that!" 

"What  shall  I  say,  then  ?"  she  answered — still  she  re- 


240  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

membered  herself.  "I  have  told  you  that  I  know  noth- 
ing of  the  abduction  of  his  child.  That  is  all  I  have  to 
say." 

Hornyold  shook  his  sleek  head  again. 

"I  am  afraid  that  won't  do,"  he  said.  "What" — con- 
sulting Nadin  with  his  eye — "what  do  the  officers  say?" 

Nadin  laughed  curtly. 

"Not  by  no  means,  it  won't  do !"  he  said.  "What  she 
says  is  slap  up  against  the  evidence,  sir,  and  evidence 
strong  enough  to  hang  a  man.  The  truth  is,  your  rever- 
ence, the  young  lady  has  had  every  chance,  and  all  said 
and  done  we  are  losing  time.  And  time  is  more  than 
money !  The  sooner  she  is  under  lock  and  key  the  bet- 
ter." 

"You  apply  that  she  be  committed?"  Hornyold  asked 
slowly. 

"I  do,  sir." 

The  Justice  looked  at  Bishop. 

"Do  you  join  in  the  application?"  he  asked. 

The  officer  nodded,  but  with  evident  reluctance. 

The  clerk,  who  had  taken  his  seat  at  the  corner  of  the 
table  and  laid  some  papers  before  him,  dipped  his  pen  in 
the  inkhorn,  which  he  carried  at  his  button-hole.  He 
prepared  to  write.  "On  the  charge  of  being  acces- 
sory?" he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Before  or  after,  Mr. 
Nadin?" 

"Both,"  said  Nadin. 

"After,"  said  Bishop. 

The  clerk  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  be- 
gan to  write ;  but  slowly,  and  as  if  he  wished  to  leave  as 
long  as  possible  a  locus  penitently.  It  was  a  feeling 
shared  by  all  except  Captain  Clyne.  Even  the  Man- 
chester man,  hardened  as  he  was  by  a  rude  life  in  the 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN  241 

roughest  of  towns,  had  had  jobs  more  to  his  taste — and 
wished  it  done ;  while  the  feeling  of  the  greater  part  was 
one  of  pity.  The  girl  was  so  young,  her  breeding  and 
refinement  were  so  manifest,  her  courage  so  high,  she 
confronted  them  so  bravely,  that  they  were  sensible  of 
something  cruel  in  their  attitude  to  her;  gathered  as 
they  were  many  to  one — and  that  one  a  woman  with  no 
one  of  her  sex  beside  her.  They  recoiled  from  the  idea 
of  using  force  to  her.  And  now  it  was  really  come  to  the 
point  of  imprisoning  her,  those  who  had  a  notion  what 
a  prison  was  disliked  it  most;  fearing  not  only  that  she 
might  resist  removal  and  cause  a  heart-rending  scene, 
but  still  more  that  she  had  unknown  sufferings  before 
her. 

For  the  prisons  of  that  day  were  not  the  prisons  of 
to-day.  There  was  no  separation  of  one  class  of  offenders 
from  another.  There  were  no  separate  cells,  there  were 
rarely  even  separate  beds.  Girls  awaiting  trial  were 
liable  to  be  locked  up  with  the  worst  women-felons.  Nay, 
the  very  warders  were  often  old  offenders,  who  had 
earned  their  places  by  favour.  In  small  country  prisons, 
conditions  were  better,  but  air,  light,  space,  and  cleanli- 
ness were  woefully  lacking.  Something  might  be  done, 
no  doubt,  to  soften  the  lot  of  a  prisoner  of  Henrietta's 
class ;  but  indulgence  depended  on  the  whim  of  the  jailor 
— who  at  Appleby  was  a  blacksmith ! — and  could  be  with- 
drawn as  easily  as  it  was  granted. 

Suddenly  the  clerk  looked  up  over  his  glasses.  "The 
full  name,"  he  said,  "if  you  please." 

"Henrietta  Mary  Darner."    It  was  Clyne  who  spoke. 

The  clerk  added  the  name,  and  rising  from  his  seat 
offered  the  pen  to  the  magistrate.  But  Hornyold  hesi- 
tated. He  looked  flurried,  and  something  startled. 


242  COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN 

"But  should  not "  he  murmured,  "ought  we  not 

to  communicate  with  her  brother — with — Sir  Charles? 
He  must  be  her  guardian !" 

"Sir  Charles,"  Clyne  answered,  "has  repudiated  all 
responsibility.  It  would  be  useless  to  apply  to  him.  I 
have  seen  him.  And  the  matter  is  a  criminal  matter." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  her  colour  faded  suddenly. 
And  in  the  eyes  of  one  or  two  she  seemed  a  more  pitiful 
figure,  standing  alone  and  mute,  than  before.  But  for 
the  awe  in  which  they  held  Clyne,  and  their  knowledge 
of  his  reason  for  severity,  the  chaplain  and  Long  Tom 
Gilson,  who  was  one  of  those  by  the  door,  would  have 
intervened.  As  it  was,  Hornyold  stooped  to  the  table 
and  signed  the  form — or  was  signing  it  when  the  clerk 
spoke. 

"One  moment,  your  reverence,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"The  debtors'  quarters  at  Appleby,  where  they'd  be  sure 
to  put  the  young  lady,  are  as  good  as  under  water  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  Kendal's  nearer,  she'd  be  better  there. 
And  you've  power  to  say  which  it  shall  be." 

"Kendal,  then,"  Hornyold  assented.  The  name  was 
altered  and  he  signed  the  committal. 

As  he  rose  from  the  table,  constraint  fell  on  one  and 
all.  They  wondered  nervously  what  was  to  come  next; 
and  it  was  left  to  Nadin  to  put  an  end  to  the  scene. 
"Landlord !"  he  said,  turning  to  the  door,  "a  chaise  for 
Kendal  in  ten  minutes.  And  send  your  servant  to  go 
with  the  young  lady  to  her  room,  and  get  together  what 
she'll  want.  You'd  best  take  her,  Bishop." 

Bishop  assented  in  a  low  tone,  and  Gilson  went  out  to 
give  the  order.  Hornyold  said  something  to  Clyne  and 
they  talked  together  in  low  tones  and  with  averted  faces. 
Then,  still  talking,  they  moved  to  the  door  and  went  out 


COUSIN  MEETS  COUSIN  243 

without  looking  towards  her.  The  clerk  gathered  up  his 
papers,  handed  one  to  Bisliop,  and  fastened  the  others 
together  with  a  piece  of  red  tape.  That  done,  he,  too, 
rose  and  followed  the  magistrate,  making  her  an  awk- 
ward bow  as  he  passed.  Mr.  Sutton  alone  remained,  and, 
pale  and  excited,  fidgeted  to  and  fro ;  he  could  not  bear 
to  stay,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  girl  alone  with 
the  officers.  Possibly — but  to  do  him  justice  this  went 
for  little — he  might  by  staying  commend  himself  to  her, 
he  might  wipe  out  the  awkward  impression  made  by  the 
night's  adventure.  But  Clyne  put  in  his  head  and  called 
him  in  a  peremptory  tone;  and  he  had  to  go  with  a 
feeble  apologetic  glance  at  her.  She  was  left  standing 
by  the  table,  alone  with  the  officers. 

For  an  instant  she  looked  wildly  at  the  door.  Then, 
"May  I  go  to  my  room  now?"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"Not  alone,"  N"adin  answered — but  civilly,  for  him. 
"In  a  moment  the  woman  will  be  here,  and  you  can  go 
with  her.  It's  not  quite  regular,  but  we'll  stretch  a  point. 
But  you  must  not  be  long,  miss !  You'll  have  no  need," 
with  a  faint  grin,  "of  many  frocks,  or  furbelows,  where 
you're  going." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MR.  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE 

WHEN  the  chaise  which  carried  the  prisoner  to  Ken- 
dal  had  left  the  inn,  and  the  search  parties  had  gone 
their  way  under  leaders  who  knew  the  country,  and  the 
long  tail  of  the  last  shaggy  pony  had  whisked  itself  out 
of  sight,  a  dullness  exceeding  that  of  November  settled 
down  on  the  inn  by  the  lake.  The  road  in  front  ran,  a 
dull,  unbroken  ribbon,  along  the  water-side;  and  alone 
and  melancholy  the  chaplain  walked  up  and  down,  up 
and  down,  the  last  man  left.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Gilson 
appeared  at  the  door  and  looked  this  way  and  that;  but 
her  eye  was  sombre  and  her  manner  did  not  invite  ap- 
proach or  confidence.  Occasionally,  too,  Modest  Ann's 
face  was  pressed  against  the  window  of  the  coffee-room, 
where  she  was  setting  cut  the  long  table  against  evening ; 
but  she  was  disguised  in  tears  and  temper,  and  before 
Mr.  Sutton  could  identify  the  phenomenon,  or  grasp  its 
meaning,  she  was  gone.  The  frosty  promise  of  the 
morning  had  vanished,  and  in  its  place  leaden  clouds 
dulled  sky  and  lake,  and  hung  heavy  and  black  on  the 
scarred  forehead  of  Bow  Fell.  Mr.  Sutton  looked  above 
and  below,  and  this  way  and  that,  and,  too  restless  to  go 
in,  found  no  comfort  without.  He  wished  that  he  had 
gone  with  the  searchers,  though  he  knew  not  a  step  of 
the  country.  He  wished  that  he  had  said  more  for  the 
girl,  and  stood  up  for  her  more  firmly,  though  to  do  so 

244 


MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  R&LE  245 

had  been  to  quarrel  with  his  patron.  Above  all,  he  wished 
that  he  had  never  seen  her,  never  given  way  to  the 
temptation  to  aspire  to  her,  never  started  in  pursuit  of 
her — last  of  all,  that  he  had  never  stooped  to  spy  on  her. 
He  was  ill  content  with  himself  and  his  work ;  ill  content 
with  the  world,  his  patron,  everybody,  everything.  No 
man  was  ever  worse  content. 

For  Nemesis  in  an  unexpected  form  was  overtaking, 
nay  even  as  he  walked  the  road,  had  overtaken  the  chap- 
lain. He  had  come  to  marry,  he  remained  to  love;  he 
had  come  to  enjoy,  he  remained  to  suffer.  He  had  come, 
dazzled  by  the  girl's  rank  and  fortune,  that  rank  and 
that  fortune  which  he  had  thought  so  much  above  him- 
self, and  to  which  her  beauty  added  so  piquant  and  deli- 
cate a  charm.  And,  lo,  it  was  neither  her  rank,  nor  her 
fortune,  nor  her  beauty  that,  as  he  walked,  beat  at  his 
heart  and  would  be  heard,  would  have  entrance ;  but  the 
girl's  lonely  plight  and  her  disgrace  and  her  trouble.  On 
a  sudden,  as  he  went  helplessly  and  aimlessly  and  unhap- 
pily up  and  down  the  road,  he  recognised  the  truth ;  he 
knew  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  His  eyes  filled,  his 
feelings  overcame  him — and  no  man  was  ever  more  sur- 
prised. He  had  to  walk  a  little  way  down  the  road  be- 
fore, out  of  ken  of  the  horse,  he  dared  to  wipe  the  tears 
from  his  cheeks.  Nor  even  then  could  he  refrain  from 
one  or  two  foolish,  unmanly  gasps. 

"I  did  not  think  that  I  was — such  a  fool!"  he  mut- 
tered. "Such  a  fool !  I  didn't  think  it !" 

When  he  regained  command  of  himself  he  found  that 
his  feet  had  borne  him  to  the  gate-pillar  where  so  much 
had  happened  the  previous  day.  To  the  very  place  where 
he  had  surprised  Henrietta  as  she  arranged  her  signal, 
and  where  she  had  so  nearly  surprised  him  in  the  act  of 


246  MR-  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE 

watching  her !  In  his  new-born  repentance,  in  his  new- 
born honesty  he  hated  the  place;  he  hated  it  only  less 
than  he  hated  the  conduct  of  which  it  reminded  him. 
And  partly  out  of  sentiment,  partly  out  of  some  un- 
owned notion  of  doing  penance,  he  turned  and  slowly 
retraced  her  course  to  the  inn,  treading  as  far  as  possible 
where  she  had  trodden.  When  he  reached  the  door  he 
did  not  go  in,  but,  unwilling  to  face  any  one,  he  went 
on  as  far  as  a  seat  on  the  foreshore,  where  he  had  seen 
her  sit.  And  the  sentiment  of  her  presence  still  forming 
the  attraction,  he  wondered  if  she  had  paused  there  on 
that  morning,  or  if  she  had  gone  indoors  at  once. 

He  was  so  unhappy  that  he  did  not  feel  the  cold.  The 
thought  of  her  warmed  him,  and  he  sat  for  a  minute  or 
two,  with  his  eyes  on  the  gloomy  face  of  the  lake  that, 
towards  the  farther  shore,  frowned  more  darkly  under 
the  shadow  of  the  woods.  He  wished  that  he  understood 
her  conduct  better,  that  he  had  the  clue  to  it.  He  wished 
that  he  understood  her  refusal  to  speak.  But  right  or 
wrong,  she  was  in  trouble  and  he  loved  her.  Ay,  right 
or  wrong !  For  good  or  ill !  Still  he  sighed,  for  all  was 
very  dark.  And  presently  he  went  to  rise. 

His  eyes  in  the  act  fell  on  a  few  scraps  of  paper  which 
lay  at  his  feet  and  showed  the  whiter  for  the  general 
gloom.  Letters  were  not  so  common  then  as  now.  It 
was  much  if  one  person  in  five  could  write.  The  postage 
on  a  note  sent  from  the  south  of  England  to  the  north 
was  a  shilling;  the  pages  were  crossed  and  recrossed, 
were  often  read  and  cherished  long.  Paper,  therefore, 
did  not  lie  abroad,  as  it  lies  abroad  now ;  and  Mr.  Sutton 
— hardly  knowing  what  he  did — bent  his  eyes  on  the 
scraps.  He  was  long-sighted,  and  on  one  morsel  a  little 
larger  than  its  neighbours,  he  read  the  word  "gate." 


MR.  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  247 

In  other  circumstances  he  would  not  ten  seconds  later 
have  known  what  words  he  had  read.  But  at  the  moment 
he  had  the  incident  of  the  gate-post  in  his  head — and 
Henrietta;  and  he  apprehended  as  in  a  flash  that  this 
might  be  the  summons  which  had  called  her  forth  the 
previous  night — to  her  great  damage.  He  conceived  that 
after  answering  it  by  setting  the  signal  on  the  gate-post 
she  might  have  come  to  this  place,  and  before  going  into 
the  house  might  have  torn  up  the  letter  and  scattered 
the  pieces  abroad.  If  so  the  secret  lay  at  his  feet;  and 
if  he  stooped  and  took  it  up,  he  might  help  her. 

He  hung  in  doubt  a  few  seconds.  For  he  was  grown 
strangely  scrupulous.  But  he  reflected  that  he  could  de- 
stroy the  evidence  if  it  bore  against  her — he  would  de- 
stroy it!  And  he  gave  way.  Furtively,  but  with  an 
eager  hand,  he  collected  the  scraps  of  paper.  There 
were  about  a  score,  the  size  of  dice,  and  discoloured  by 
moisture,  strewn  here  and  there  round  the  seat.  Behind, 
among  the  prickly  shoots  and  brown  roots  of  a  gorse- 
bush  were  as  many  more,  as  if  she  had  dropped  a  handful 
there.  Another  dozen  he  tracked  down,  one  here,  one 
there,  in  spots  to  which  the  wind  had  carried  them.  It 
was  unlikely  that  he  had  got  all,  even  then.  But  though 
he  searched  as  narrowly  as  he  dared — even  going  on  his 
knees  beside  the  bush — he  could  find  no  more.  Doubt- 
less the  wind  had  taken  toll;  and  at  length,  carrying 
what  he  had  found  hidden  in  his  hand,  he  went  into  the 
house  and  sought  refuge  in  his  bedroom. 

Eagerly,  though  he  had  little  hope  of  finding  the  re- 
sult to  his  mind,  he  began  to  arrange  the  morsels.  He 
found  the  task  less  hard  than  he  had  anticipated.  Guided 
by  the  straight  edges  of  the  paper,  he  contrived  in  eight 
or  nine  minutes  to  piece  the  letter  together ;  to  such  an 


248  MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE 

extent,  at  any  rate,  as  enabled  him  to  gather  its  drift. 
About  a  fifth  of  the  words  were  missing;  and  among 
these  missing  words  were  the  opening  phrase,  the  last 
two  words,  and  about  a  score  in  the  body  of  the  note. 
But  the  gist  of  the  message  was  clear,  its  tone  and  feeling 
survived;  and  they  not  only  negatived  the  notion  that 
Henrietta  was  in  league  with  Walterson,  but  presented 
in  all  its  strength  the  appeal  which  his  prayer  must 
needs  have  made  to  the  heart  of  a  romantic  girl. 

"  .  .  .  ed  you  ill,  but  men  are  not  as  women  and 
I  was  tempted  ...  I  do  not  ask  .  .  .  for- 
give ...  I  ask  you  to  save  me.  I  am  in  your 
hands.  If  you  .  .  .  the  heart  to  leave  me  to  a 
.  .  .  lent  death,  all  is  said.  If  you  have  mercy  meet 
my  .  .  .  ger  at  ten  to-mor  .  .  .  ning  .  .  . 
Troutbeck  lane  comes  down  to  the  lake.  As  I  hope  to 
live  you  run  no  risk  and  can  suffer  no  harm.  If  you  are 
merci  .  .  .  spare  me  ...  put  a  ...  stone,  be- 
fore noon  to-morrow,  on  the  post  of  the  .  .  .  gate.  .  .  ." 

Strange  to  say,  Mr.  Button's  first  feeling,  when  he  had 
assured  himself  of  the  truth,  was  an  excessive,  furious 
indignation  against  his  patron.  He  forgot,  in  his  pity 
for  the  girl,  the  provocation  which  Captain  Clyne  had 
suffered.  He  forgot  the  child's  peril  and  the  pressure 
which  this  had  laid  on  the  father's  feelings.  He  forgot 
the  light  in  which  the  girl's  stubborn  silence  had  placed 
her  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  believed  that  she  could  save 
by  a  word  that  which  he  held  more  precious  than  his  life. 
The  chaplain  was  a  narrow,  and  in  secret  a  conceited 
man ;  he  had  been  guilty  of  some  things  that  ill  became 
his  cloth.  But  he  had  under  his  cloth  a  heart  that  once 
roused  was  capable  of  generous  passion.  And  as  he 


MR.  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  249 

stalked  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  frenzy  of  love  and 
pity  and  indignation,  he  longed  for  the  moment  which 
should  see  him  face  to  face  with  Captain  Clyne.  The 
letter  once  shown,  he  did  not  conceive  that  there  would 
be  the  least  difficulty  in  freeing  the  girl ;  and  he  yearned 
for  the  return  of  the  search  parties.  It  was  past  four 
already ;  in  the  valley  it  was  growing  dusk.  Yet  if  Clyne 
returned  soon  the  girl  might  be  released  before  night. 
She  might  be  spared  the  humiliation,  it  might  well  be 
the  misery,  of  a  night  in  prison. 

His  room  looked  to  the  back  of  the  inn;  and  here 
where  all  the  afternoon  had  been  plucking  of  ducks  and 
fowls,  and  slicing  of  flitches — for  some  of  the  searchers 
would  need  to  be  fed — lights  were  beginning  to  shine 
and  a  cheerful  stir  and  a  warm  promise  of  comfort  to 
prevail.  From  the  kitchen,  where  the  jacks  were  turn- 
ing, firelight  streamed  across  the  yard,  and  pattens 
clicked,  and  dogs  occasionally  yelped ;  and  now  and  again 
Mrs.  Gilson's  voice  clacked  strenuously.  In  the  heat  of 
his  feelings  Mr.  Sutton  compared  this  outlook  with  the 
cold  quarters  that  held  his  Henrietta;  and  tears  rose 
anew  as  he  pictured  the  dank  prison  yard  and  the  bare 
stone  rooms,  and  the  squalor  and  the  company.  After 
that  he  could  not  sit  still.  He  could  not  wait.  He  must 
be  acting.  He  must  tell  his  discovery  to  some  one,  no 
matter  to  whom.  He  arranged  the  letter  between  the 
pages  of  a  book  and,  having  arranged  it,  took  the  book 
under  his  arm  and  ran  downstairs.  At  the  door  of  her 
snuggery  he  came  upon  Mrs.  Gilson,  who  had  just  had 
words  with  Modest  Ann.  She  eyed  him  sourly. 

"I  want  to  show  you  something !"  he  said  impetuously, 
forgetting  his  fear  of  her.  "I  have  discovered  something, 
ma'am !  A  thing  of  the  utmost  importance." 


250  MR-  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE, 

She  grunted. 

"If  it  has  to  do  with  the  child,"  she  said  grudgingly, 
"I'll  hear  it,  and  thank  you." 

"It  has  naught  to  do  with  the  child,"  he  answered 
bluntly.  "It  has  to  do  with  Miss  Darner." 

"Then  I'll  have  naught  to  do  with  it!"  the  landlady 
retorted  with  equal  bluntness,  pursing  up  her  lips  and 
speaMng  as  drily  as  a  file.  "I've  washed  my  hands  of 
her." 

"But  listen  to  me !"  he  replied.  "Listen  to  me,  Mrs. 
Gilson !  Here's  a  young  lady " 

"That's  behaved  bad  from  the  beginning — bad!"  the 
landlady  answered,  cutting  him  short.  "As  bad  as 
woman  could !  A  woman,  indeed,  would  have  had  some 
heart,  and  not  have  left  an  innocent  child  in  the  hands 
of  a  parcel  of  murderous  villains !  No,  no,  my  gentle- 
man, you'll  not  persuade  me.  An  egg  is  good  or  bad, 
as  you  find  it,  and  'tis  no  good  saying  that  the  yolk  is 
good  when  the  white  is  tainted  ?" 

"But  see  here,  ma'am" — he  was  bursting  with  indig- 
nation— "you  are  entirely  wrong !  Entirely  wrong !" 

"Then  your  reverence  •  had  best  speak  to  Captain 
Clyne,  for  it's  not  my  business !"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted 
crushingly.  "I'm  no  scholar  and  don't  meddle  with 
writings."  And  she  turned  her  broad  back  upon  him 
and  the  book  which  he  proffered  her. 

Mr.  Sutton  stood  a  moment  in  anger  equal  to  his  dis- 
comfiture. Then  he  went  back  slowly  to  his  pacing  in 
the  road.  After  all  the  woman  could  do  nothing,  she 
was  nothing.  And  the  search  parties  would  be  returning 
soon.  For  night  was  falling.  The  last  pale  daylight 
was  dying  on  the  high  fells  towards  Patterdale ;  the  out- 
lines of  the  low  lands  about  the  lake  were  fading  into 


MR.  BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  251 

the  blur  of  night.  Here  and  there  a  tiny  rushlight  shone 
out,  high  up,  and  marked  a  hill-farm.  Possibly  the 
searchers  had  found  the  child.  In  that  case,  Mr.  Sut- 
ton's  heart,  which  should  have  leapt  at  the  thought,  only 
mildly  rejoiced;  and  that,  rather  on  account  of  the 
favourable  turn  the  discovery  might  give  to  Henrietta's 
affairs,  than  for  his  patron's  sake.  Not  that  he  was  not 
sorry  for  the  child,  and  sorry  for  the  father;  he  tried, 
indeed,  to  feel  more  sorry.  But  he  was  not  a  man  of 
warm  feelings,  and  his  sensibilities  were  selfish.  He 
could  not  be  expected  to  blossom  out  in  a  moment  in 
more  directions  than  one.  It  was  something  if  he  had 
learned  in  the  few  days  he  had  spent  by  the  lake  to  think 
of  any  other  than  himself. 

Had  he  been  more  anxious,  had  it  been  not  he,  but  the 
father,  who  paced  there  in  suspense,  dwelling  on  what  a 
moment  might  bring  forth,  he  had  been  keener  to  notice 
things.  He  had  traced,  down  the  shoulder  of  Wansfell, 
the  slow  march  of  a  dancing  light  that  marked  the  de- 
scent of  one  of  the  parties.  He  had  heard  afar  off  the 
voices  of  the  men,  who  announced  from  Calgarth  that 
Mrs.  Watson's  servants  had  searched  the  woods  as  far  as 
Elleray,  but  without  success — these,  indeed,  were  the 
first  to  come  in.  Hard  on  them  arrived  a  band,  under 
Mr.  Curwen's  bailiff,  which  had  made  the  tour  of  the 
islands — Belle  Isle,  Lady  Holm,  Thompson's  Holm,  and 
the  rest — with  the  same  result;  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  rode  in,  with  jaded  horses,  the  troop  of  yeomen 
who  had  undertaken  to  traverse  the  broken  country  at 
the  head  of  the  lake,  between  the  Brathay  and  the 
Rotha.  Two  parties,  the  Troutbeck  contingent  with 
which  was  Captain  Clyne,  and  the  riders  who  had  chosen 
Stock  Ghyll  valley  and  the  Kirkstone,  were  still  out  at 


252  MR-   BUTTON'S  NEW  R6LB 

seven ;  and  as  the  others  had  met  with  no  success,  their 
return  was  eagerly  awaited.  For  the  road  between  the 
inn  and  the  lake  was  astir  with  life.  Ostlers'  lanthorns 
twinkled  hither  and  thither,  and  the  place  was  like  a  fair. 
A  crowd  of  men,  muffled  in  homespun  plaids,  blocked 
the  doorway,  and  gabbling  over  their  ale,  stared  now 
in  one  direction,  now  in  the  other;  while  the  more  highly 
favoured  flocked  into  the  snuggery  and  coffee-room  and 
there  discussed  the  chances  in  stentorian  tones.  The 
chaplain,  with  his  feelings  engaged  elsewhere,  wondered 
at  the  fury  of  some,  and  the  heat  of  all ;  and  was  shocked 
by  their  oaths  and  threats  of  vengeance. 

Clyne  and  his  party  came  in  about  half-past  seven; 
and  as  it  chanced  that  the  Stock  Ghyll  troop  arrived  at 
the  same  minute,  the  whole  house  turned  out  to  meet  the 
two,  and  learn  their  news.  Alas,  the  downcast  faces  of 
the  riders  told  it  sufficiently ;  and  every  head  was  uncov- 
ered as  Clyne,  with  stern  and  moody  eyes,  rode  to  the 
door  and  dismounted.  He  turned  to  the  throng  of  faces, 
and  the  lanthorn-light  falling  on  his  features  showed 
them  pale  and  disturbed. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  "I  thank  you.  I  shall  not 

forget  this  day.  I  shall  never  forget  this  day.  I " 

and  then,  though  he  was  a  practised  speaker,  he  could 
not  say  more  or  go  on.  He  made  a  gesture,  at  once 
pathetic  and  dignified,  with  his  single  arm,  and  turning 
from  them  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  with  his  chin  on  his 
breast. 

The  farmers  were  Tories  to  a  man.  Even  Brougham's 
silver  tongue  had  failed  (in  the  election  of  the  year  be- 
fore) to  turn  them  against  the  Lowthers.  They  were  of 
the  class  from  whom  the  yeomanry  were  drawn,  and  they 
had  scant  sympathy  with  the  radical  weavers  of  Eochdale 


EVERY    HEAD  WAS    UNCOVERED    AS    CLYNE  .   .  .   RODE    TO    THE    DOOK 


MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  253 

and  Bury,  Bolton  and  Manchester.  Had  they  caught  the 
villains  at  this  moment,  they  had  made  short  work  of 
them.  They  watched  the  slight  figure  with  its  empty 
sleeve  as  it  passed  into  the  house,  and  their  looks  of  com- 
passion were  exceeded  only  by  their  curses  loud  and  deep. 
And  pitiful  indeed  was  the  tale  which  those,  who  were 
forced  to  leave,  carried  home  to  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters on  the  fells. 

The  chaplain,  hovering  on  the  edge  of  the  chattering 
groups,  could  not  come  at  once  at  his  patron,  who  had  no 
sooner  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  than  he  was  beset 
by  Nadin  and  others  with  reports  and  arrangements. 
But  as  soon  as  Clyne  had  gone  wearily  to  his  room  to 
take  some  food  before  starting  afresh — for  it  was  de- 
termined to  continue  the  search  as  soon  as  the  moon 
rose — the  chaplain  went  to  him  with  his  book  under  his 
arm. 

He  found  Clyne  seated  before  the  fire,  with  his  chin 
on  his  hand  and  his  attitude  one  of  the  deepest  despon- 
dency. He  had  borne  up  with  difficulty  under  the  public 
gaze;  he  gave  way,  martinet  as  he  was,  the  moment  he 
was  alone.  The  reflection  that  the  child  might  have  been 
within  reach  of  his  voice,  yet  beyond  his  help,  that  it 
might  be  crying  to  him  even  now,  and  crying  in  vain, 
that  each  hour  which  exposed  it  to  hardship  endangered 
its  life — such  thoughts  harrowed  the  father's  feelings 
almost  beyond  endurance.  Sutton  suspected  from  his 
attitude  that  he  was  praying;  and  for  a  moment  the 
chaplain,  touched  and  affected,  was  in  two  minds  about 
disturbing  him.  But  he,  too,  had  his  harassing  thoughts. 
His  heart,  too,  burned  with  pity.  And  to  turn  back  now 
was  to  abandon  hope — grown  forlorn  already — of  free- 
ing Henrietta  that  evening.  He  went  forward  therefore 


254  MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE 

with  boldness.  He  laid  his  book  on  the  table,  and  find- 
ing himself  unheeded,  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  have  something  here,"  he  said — and  his  voice  de- 
spite himself  was  needlessly  stiff  and  distant — "which  I 
think  it  my  duty,  Captain  Clyne,  to  show  you  without 
delay." 

Clyne  turned  slowly  and  rose  as  he  turned. 

"To  show  me?"  he  muttered. 

"Yes." 

"What  is  it?  You  have  not" — raising  his  eyes  with  a 
sudden  intake  of  breath — "discovered  anything?  A 
clue?" 

"I  have  discovered  something,"  the  chaplain  answered 
slowly.  "It  is  a  clue  of  a  kind." 

A  rush  of  blood  darkened  dyne's  face.  He  held  out 
a  shaking  hand. 

"To  where  the  lad  is?"  he  ejaculated,  taking  a  step 
forward.  "  To  where  they  have  taken  him  ?  If  it  be  so, 
God  bless  you,  Sutton  !  God  bless  you !  God  bless  you ! 
I'll  never " 

The  clergyman  cut  him  short.  He  was  shocked  by  the 
other's  intense  excitement  and  frightened  by  the  swelling 
of  his  features.  He  stayed  him  by  a  gesture. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  cried.  "I  did  not  mean,  sir,  to  awaken 
false  hopes.  Pray  pardon  me.  Pray  pardon  me.  It  is  a 
clue,  but  to  Miss  Darner's  conduct  this  morning!  To 
her  conduct  throughout.  To  her  reasons  for  silence. 
Which  were  not,  I  am  now  able  to  show  you,  connected 
with  any  feeling  of  hostility  to  you,  Captain  Clyne,  but 
rather  imposed  upon  her " 

But  Clyne's  face  had  settled  into  a  mask  of  stone. 
Only  he  knew  what  the  disappointment  was!  And  at 
that  word,  "I  care  not  what  they  were!"  he  said  in  a 


MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  255 

voice  incredibly  harsh,  "or  how  imposed !  If  that  be 
all — if  that  is  all  you  are  here  to  tell  me " 

"But  if  it  be  all,  it  is  all  to  her!"  Sutton  retorted, 
stung  in  his  turn.  "And  most  urgent,  sir." 

"As  to  her?" 

"As  to  her.  It  places  her  conduct  in  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent light,  Captain  Clyne,  and  one  which  it  is  your 
duty  to  recognise." 

"Have  I  not  said,"  Clyne  answered  with  bitter  vehe- 
mence, "that  I  wish  to  hear  naught  of  her  conduct?  Do 
you  know,  sir,  in  what  light  I  regard  her?" 

"I  hope  in  none  that — that " 

"As  a  murderess,"  Clyne  answered  in  the  same  tone  of 
restrained  fury.  "  She  has  conspired  against  a  child  !  A 
boy  who  never  harmed  her,  and  now  never  could  have 
harmed  her !  She  is  not  worthy  of  the  name  of  woman ! 
I  thank  God  that  He  has  helped  me  to  keep  her  out  of 
my  mind  as  I  rode  to-day.  And  you — you  must  needs 
bring  her  up  again !  Know  that  I  loathe  and  detest  her, 
sir,  and  pray  that  I  may  never  see  her,  never  hear  her 
name  again !" 

Mr.  Sutton  raised  his  hands  in  horror. 

"You  are  unjust!"  he  cried.  "Indeed,  indeed,  you 
are  unjust !" 

"What  is  that  to  you?  And  who  are  you  to  talk  to 
me?  Is  it  your  child  who  is  missing?  Your  child  who 
is  being  tortured,  perhaps  out  of  life?  Who,  a  cripple, 
is  being  dragged  at  these  men's  heels?  You?  You? 
What  have  you  to  do  with  this  ?" 

The  tone  was  crushing.  But  the  chaplain,  too,  had  his 
stubborn  side,  and  resentment  flamed  within  him  as  he 
thought  of  the  girl  and  her  lot.  "Do  I  understand  then," 
he  said — he  was  very  pale — "that  you  refuse  to  hear 


256  MR-   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE 

what  I  have  by  chance  discovered — in  Miss  Darner's 
favour  ?" 

"I  do." 

''That  you  will  not,  Captain  Clyne,  even  look  at  this 
letter — this  letter  which  I  have  found  and  which  exon- 
erates her?" 

"Never!"  Clyne  replied  harshly.  "Never!  And,  now 
you  know  my  mind,  go,  sir,  and  do  not  return  to  this  sub- 
ject! This  is  no  time  for  trifling,  nor  am  I  in  the 
mood." 

But  the  chaplain  held  his  ground,  though  he  was  very 
nervous.  And  a  resolution,  great  and  heroic,  took  shape 
within  him,  growing  in  a  moment  to  full  size — he  knew 
not  how.  He  raised  his  meagre  figure  to  its  full  height, 
and  his  pale  peaky  face  assumed  a  dignity  which  the  pul- 
pit had  never  known.  "I,  too,  am  in  no  mood  for  tri- 
fling, Captain  Clyne,"  he  said.  "But  I  do  not  hold  this 
matter  trifling.  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  think  it  so  important  that  I  consider  it 
my  duty  to  press  it  upon  you  by  every  means  in  my 
power !" 

Clyne  looked  at  him  wrathfully,  astonished  at  his 
presumption.  "The  girl  has  turned  your  head,"  he  said. 

The  chaplain  waived  the  words  aside.  "And  there- 
fore," he  continued,  "if  you  decline,  Captain  Clyne,  to 
read  this  letter,  or  to  consider  the  evidence  it  con- 
tains  " 

"That  I  do  absolutely !    Absolutely !" 

"I  beg  to  resign  my  office,"  Mr.  Sutton  responded, 
trembling  violently.  "  I  will  no  longer — I  will  no  longer 
serve  one,  however  much  I  respect  him,  or  whatever  my 
obligations  to  him,  who  refuses  to  do  justice  to  his  own 
kith  and  kin,  who  refuses  to  stand  between  a  helpless 


MR.   BUTTON'S  NEW  ROLE  25? 

girl  and  wrong !  Vile  wrong !"  And  he  made  a  gesture 
with  his  hands  as  if  he  laid  something  on  the  table. 

If  his  object  was  to  gain  possession  of  Captain  dyne's 
attention  he  succeeded.  Clyne  looked  at  him  with  as 
much  surprise  as  anger. 

"She  has  certainly  turned  your  head,"  he  said  in  a 
lower  tone,  "if  you  are  not  playing  a  sorry  jest,  that  is. 
What  is  it  to  you,  man,  if  I  follow  my  own  judgment? 
What  is  Miss  Darner  to  you?" 

"You  offered  her  to  me,"  with  a  trembling  approach 
to  sarcasm,  "for  my  wife.  She  is  so  much  to  me." 

"But  I  understood  that  she  would  not  take  you," 
Clyne  retorted ;  and  now  he  spoke  wearily.  The  surprise 
of  the  other's  defiance  was  beginning  to  wear  off.  "But, 
there,  perhaps  I  was  mistaken,  and  then  your  anxiety  for 
her  interests  is  explained." 

"Explain  it  as  you  please,"  Mr.  Sutton  answered  with 
fire,  "if  you  will  read  this  letter  and  weigh  it." 

"I  will  not,"  Clyne  returned,  his  anger  rising  anew. 
"Once  for  all,  I  will  not!" 

"Then  I  resign  the  chaplaincy  I  hold,  sir." 

"Eesign  and  be  d d !"  the  naval  captain  answered. 

The  day  had  cruelly  tried  his  temper. 

"Your  words  to  me,"  Mr.  Sutton  retorted  furiously, 
"and  your  conduct  to  her  are  of  a  piece!"  And  white 
with  passion,  his  limbs  trembling  with  excitement,  he 
strode  to  the  door.  He  halted  on  the  threshold,  bowed 
low,  and  went  out. 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

BISHOP,  in  his  corner  of  the  chaise,  made  his  burly 
person  as  small  as  he  could.  He  tried  his  best  to  hide  his 
brown  tops  and  square-toed  boots.  In  her  corner  Hen- 
rietta sat  upright,  staring  rigidly  before  her.  For  just 
one  moment,  as  she  passed  from  the  house  to  the  car- 
riage, under  a  score  of  staring  eyes,  a  scarlet  flush  had 
risen  to  her  very  hair,  and  she  had  shrunk  back.  But  the 
colour  had  faded  as  quickly  as  it  had  risen;  she  had 
restrained  herself,  and  taken  her  seat.  And  now  the 
screes  of  Bow  Fell,  flecked  with  snow,  were  not  more 
cold  and  hard  than  her  face  as  she  gazed  at  the  postil- 
ion's moving  back  and  saw  it  not.  She  knew  that  she 
was  down  now  without  hope  of  rising;  that,  the  prison 
doors  once  closed  on  her,  their  shadow  would  rest  on  her 
always.  And  her  heart  was  numbed  by  despair.  The 
burning  sense  of  injustice,  of  unfairness,  which  sears 
and  hardens  the  human  heart  more  quickly  and  more 
completely  than  any  other  emotion,  would  awaken  pres- 
ently. But  for  the  time  she  sat  stunned  and  hopeless ; 
dazed  and  confounded  by  the  astonishing  thing  which 
had  happened  to  her.  To  be  sent  to  prison !  To  be  sent 
to  herd — she  remembered  his  very  words — with  such  vile 
creatures  as  prisons  hold !  To  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
such  a  man  as  this  who  sat  beside  her.  To  have  to  obey ; 
and  to  belong  no  longer  to  herself,  but  to  others!  As 
she  thought  of  all  this,  and  of  the  ordeal  before  her, 

258 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL  359 

fraught  with  humiliations  yet  unknown,  a  hunted  look 
grew  in  her  eyes,  and  for  a  few  minutes  she  glanced 
wildly  first  out  of  this  window,  then  out  of  that.  To 
prison !  She  was  going  to  prison ! 

Fortunately  her  native  courage  came  to  her  aid  in  her 
extremity.  And  Bishop,  who  was  not  blind  to  her  emo- 
tion, spoke. 

"Don't  you  be  over-frightened,  miss,"  he  said  sooth- 
ingly. "There's  naught  to  be  scared  about.  I'll  speak 
to  them,  and  they'll  treat  you  well.  Not  that  a  gaol  is  a 
comfortable  place,"  he  continued,  remembering  his  duty 
to  his  employer;  "and  if  you  could  see  your  way  to 
speaking — even  now,  miss — I'd  take  it  on  me  to  turn  the 
horses." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  answered,  with  a  shud- 
der and  an  effort — for  her  throat  was  dry.  But  the  mere 
act  of  speaking  broke  the  spell  and  relieved  her  of  some 
of  her  fears. 

"It's  the  little  boy  I'm  thinking  of,"  Bishop  continued 
in  a  tone  of  apology.  "Captain  Clyne  thinks  the  world 
of  him.  The  world  of  him !  But,  lord,  miss !"  abruptly 
changing  his  tone,  as  his  eyes  alighted  on  her  wrist, 
"what  have  you  done  to  your  arm?" 

She  hid  her  wrist  quickly,  and  with  her  face  averted 
said  that  it  was  nothing,  nothing. 

Bishop  shook  his  head  sagely. 

"I  doubt  you  bruised  it  getting  out  of  the  window," 
he  said.  "Well,  well,  miss;  live  and  learn.  Another 
time  you'll  be  wiser,  I  hope ;  and  not  do  such  things." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  the  chaise  passing  by  Plum- 
garth  began  to  descend  into  the  wide  stony  valley.  Be- 
low them  the  white-washed  walls  and  slated  roofs  and 
mills  of  Kendal  could  be  seen  clustering  about  the  Cas* 


260  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

tie  Bow  and  the  old  grey  ruin  that  rises  above  the  Ken 
river.  On  either  hand  bleak  hills,  seamed  with  grey 
walls,  made  up  a  landscape  that  rose  without  beauty  to 
a  lowering  sky.  There  were  few  trees,  no  hedges;  and 
somewhere  the  cracked  bell  of  a  drugget  factory  or  a 
dye-works  was  clanging  out  a  monotonous  summons. 
To  Henrietta's  eye — fresh  from  the  lake-side  verdure — 
and  still  more  to  her  heart,  the  northern  landscape  struck 
cold  and  cheerless.  It  had  given  her  but  a  sorry  wel- 
come had  she  been  on  her  way  to  seek  the  hospitality  of 
the  inn.  How  much  poorer  was  its  welcome  when  she 
had  no  prospect  before  her  but  the  scant  comfort  and 
unknown  hardships  of  a  gaol ! 

The  chaise  did  not  enter  the  town,  but  a  furlong  short 
of  it  turned  aside  and  made  for  a  group  of  windowless 
buildings,  which  crowned  a  small  eminence  a  bow-shot 
from  the  houses.  As  the  horses  drew  the  chaise  up  the 
ascent  to  a  heavy  stone  doorway,  Henrietta  had  time  to 
see  that  the  entrance  was  mean,  if  strong,  and  the  place 
as  unpretending  as  it  was  dull.  Nevertheless,  her  heart 
beat  almost  to  suffocation,  as  she  stepped  out  at  a  word 
from  Bishop,  who  had  alighted  at  once  and  knocked 
at  the  iron-studded  door.  With  small  delay  a  grating 
was  opened,  a  pale  face,  marked  by  high,  hollow  tem- 
ples, looked  out ;  and  some  three  or  four  sentences  were 
exchanged.  Then  the  door  was  unlocked  and  thrown 
open.  Bishop  signed  to  her  to  enter  first  and  she  did  so 
— after  an  imperceptible  pause.  She  found  herself  in  a 
small  well-like  yard,  with  the  door  and  window  of  the 
prison-lodge  on  her  left  and  dead  walls  on  the  other 
sides. 

Two  children  were  playing  on  the  steps  of  the  lodge, 
and  some  linen,  dubiously  drying  in  the  cold  winter  air, 


IN  KBNDAL  GAOL  261 

hung  on  a  line  stretched  from  the  window  to  a  holdfast 
in  the  opposite  wall.  Unfortunately,  the  yard  had  been 
recently  washed,  and  still  ran  with  water;  so  that  these 
homely  uses,  and  even  the  bench  and  pump  which  stood 
in  a  corner,  failed  to  impart  much  cheerfulness  to  its 
aspect.  Had  Henrietta's  heart  been  capable  of  sinking 
lower  it  had  certainly  done  so. 

The  children  stared  open-mouthed  at  her:  but  not 
with  half  as  much  astonishment  as  the  man  in  shirt 
sleeves  who  had  admitted  her.  "Eh,  sir,  but  you've 
brought  the  cage  a  fine  bird,"  he  said  at  last.  "Your 
servant,  miss.  Well,  well,  well!"  with  surprisa  And 
he  scratched  his  head  and  grinned  openly.  "Debtors' 
side,  I  suppose?" 

"Eemand,"  Bishop  answered  with  a  wink  and  a  mean- 
ing shake  of  the  head.  "Here's  the  warrant.  All's 
right."  And  then  to  Henrietta — "If  you'll  sit  down  on 
that  bench,  miss,  I'll  fix  things  up  for  you." 

The  girl,  her  face  a  little  paler  than  usual,  sat  down 
as  she  was  bidden,  and  looked  about  her.  This  was  not 
her  notion  of  a  prison ;  for  here  were  neither  gyves  nor 
dungeons,  but  just  a  slatternly,  damp  yard — as  like  as 
could  be  to  some  small  backyard  in  the  out-offices  of  her 
brother's  house.  Nevertheless,  the  gyves  might  be  wait- 
ing for  her  out  of  sight ;  and  with  or  without  them,  the 
place  was  horribly  depressing  that  winter  afternoon.  The 
sky  was  grey  above,  the  walls  were  grey,  the  pavement 
grey.  She  was  almost  glad  when  Bishop  and  the  man 
in  shirt-sleeves  emerged  from  the  lodge  followed  by  a 
tall,  hard-featured  woman  in  a  dirty  mob-cap.  The 
woman's  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow,  and  she  carried  a 
jingling  bunch  of  keys.  She  eyed  Henrietta  with  dull 
dislike. 


262  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

"That  is  settled,  then,"  Bishop  said,  a  little  over- 
doing the  cheerfulness  at  which  he  aimed.  "Mother 
Weighton  will  see  to  you,  and  'twill  be  all  right.  There 
are  four  on  the  debtors'  side,  and  you'll  be  best  in  the 
women-felons',  she  thinks,  since  it's  empty,  and  you'll 
have  it  all  to  yourself." 

Henrietta  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "I  shall  be 
alone,  then?"  she  said.  "Oh,  thank  you." 

"Ay,  you'll  be  alone,"  the  woman  answered,  staring  at 
her.  "Very  much  alone!  But  I'm  not  sure  you'll  thank 
me,  by-and-by.  You  madams  are  pretty  loud  for  com- 
pany, I've  always  found,  when  you've  had  your  own  a 
bit."  Then,  "You  don't  mind  being  locked  up  in  a  yard 
by  yourself'?"  she  continued,  with  a  close  look  at  the 
girl's  face  and  long  grey  riding-dress. 

"Oh  no,  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you,"  Henrietta  said 
eagerly,  "if  you  will  let  me  be  alone." 

"Ah,  well,  we'll  see  how  you  like  it,"  the  woman  re- 
torted. "Here,  Ben,"  to  her  husband,  "I  suppose  she  is 
too  much  of  a  fine  lady  to  carry  her  band-box — yet 
awhile.  Do  you  bring  it." 

"I  am  sure,"  Bishop  said,  "the  young  lady  will  be 
grateful  for  any  kindness,  Mrs.  Weighton.  I  will  wait 
till  you've  lodged  her  comfortably.  God  bless  my  soul," 
he  continued,  screwing  up  his  features,  as  he  affected  to 
look  about  him,  "I  don't  know  that  one's  not  as  well  in 
as  out !" 

"Well,  there's  no  writs  nor  burglars !"  the  jailor  an- 
swered with  a  grin.  "And  the  young  folks,  male  nor 
female,  don't  get  into  trouble  through  staying  out  o' 
nights.  Now,  then,  missis,"  to  his  wife,  "no  need  to  be 
all  day  over  it." 

The  woman  unlocked  a  low  door  in  the  wall  opposite 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL  263 

the  lodge,  but  at  the  inner  end  of  the  yard;  and  she 
signed  to  Henrietta  to  enter  before  her.  The  girl  did 
so,  and  found  herself  in  a  flagged  yard  about  thirty  feet 
square.  On  her  right  were  four  mean-looking  doors 
having  above  each  a  grated  aperture.  Henrietta  eyed 
these  and  her  heart  sank.  They  were  only  too  like  the 
dungeons  she  had  foreseen !  But  the  jailor's  wife  turned 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  yard  where  were  two  doors 
with  small  glazed  windows  over  them.  The  two  sides 
that  remained  consisted  of  high  walls,  surmounted  by 
iron  spikes. 

"We'll  put  you  in  a  day-room  as  they're  all  empty," 
the  woman  grumbled.  She  meant  not  ill,  but  she  had  the 
unfortunate  knack  of  making  all  her  concessions  with  a 
bad  grace. 

Thereupon  she  unlocked  one  of  the  doors,  and  dis- 
closed a  small  whitewashed  room,  cold,  but  passably 
clean.  A  rough  bench  and  table  occupied  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  and  in  a  corner  stood  a  clumsy  spinning-wheel. 
The  floor  was  of  stone,  but  there  was  a  makeshift  fire- 
place, dulled  by  rust  and  dirt. 

"Get  in  a  bedstead,  Ben,"  she  continued.  "I  sup- 
pose," looking  abruptly  at  Henrietta,  "you  are  not  used 
to  chaff,  young  woman?" 

The  girl  stared. 

"I  don't  understand,  I  am  afraid,"  she  faltered. 

"You  are  used  to  feathers,  I  dare  say?"  with  a 
sneer. 

"Oh,  for  a  bed?" 

"What  else?"  impatiently.  "Good  lord,  haven't  you 
your  senses?  You  can  have  your  choice.  It's  eight- 
pence  for  chaff,  and  a  shilling  for  feathers." 

"I  don't  mind  paying  while  I've  money,"  Henrietta 


264  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

said  humbly.  "If  you'll  please  to  charge  me  what  is 
right." 

"Well,  ifs  cheap  enough,  lord  knows;  for  since  the 
changes  there's  no  garnish  this  side.  And  for  the  third 
of  the  earnings  thaf  s  left  to  us,  I'd  not  give  fippence  a 
week  for  all !" 

The  man  had  dragged  in,  while  she  talked,  a  kind  of 
wooden  trough  for  the  bed,  and  set  it  in  a  corner.  He 
had  then  departed  for  firing,  and  returned  with  a  shovel- 
ful of  burning  coals,  for  the  room  was  as  cold  as  the 
grave. 

"There's  a  pump  in  the  yard,"  the  woman  said,  "and 
a  can  and  basin,  but  you  must  serve  yourself.  And 
there's  a  pitcher  for  drinking.  And  you  can  have  from 
the  cook-shop  what  you  like  to  order  in.  You'll  have  to 
keep  your  place  clean;  but  as  long  as  you  behave  your- 
self, we'll  treat  you  according.  Only  let  us  have  no 
scratching  and  screaming!"  she  continued.  "Tempers 
don't  pay  here,  I'll  warn  you.  And  for  swoonings  we 
just  turn  the  tap  on !  So  do  you  take  notice."  And  with 
a  satisfied  look  round,  "For  the  rest,  there's  many  a 
young  woman  that's  not  gone  wrong  that's  not  so  com- 
fortable as  you,  my  girl.  And  I'd  have  you  know  it." 

Henrietta  coloured  painfully. 

"I  shall  do  very  well,"  she  said  meekly.  "But  I've 
not  done  anything  wrong." 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  woman  answered  unconcernedly,  "they 
all  say  that !  That's  of  course.  But  I  can't  stay  talking 
here.  What'd  you  like  for  your  supper  ?  A  pint  of  stout, 
and  a  plate  of  a-la-mode?  Or  a  chop  ?" 

Henrietta  reduced  the  order  to  tea  and  a  white  loaf 
and  butter — if  it  could  be  got — and  asked  meekly  if  she 
might  have  something  to  read. 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL  265 

The  Kendal  Chronicle  was  promised.  "You'll  have 
your  meal  at  five,"  Mother  Weighton  continued.  "And 
your  light  must  be  out  at  eight,  and  you'll  have  to  'tend 
service  in  chapel  on  Sunday.  By  rule  your  door  should 
be  locked  at  five;  but  as  you're  alone,  and  the  lock's  on 
the  yard,  I'll  say  naught  about  that.  You  can  have  the 
run  of  the  yard  as  a  favour  and  till  another  comes  in." 

Then  with  a  final  look  round  she  went  out,  her  pattens 
clinked  across  the  court,  and  Henrietta  heard  the  key 
turned  in  the  outer  door. 

She  stood  a  moment  pressing  her  hands  to  her  eyes, 
and  trying  to  control  herself.  At  length  she  uncovered 
her  eyes,  and  she  looked  again  round  the  whitewashed 
cell.  Yes,  it  was  real.  The  flagged  floor,  the  bench,  the 
table,  the  odd-looking  bed  in  its  wooden  trough — all 
were  real,  hard,  bare.  And  the  solitude  and  the  dreary 
silence,  and  the  light  that  was  beginning  to  fade !  The 
place  was  far  from  her  crude  notion  of  a  prison ;  but  in 
its  cold,  naked  severity  it  was  as  fartoutside  her  previous 
experience.  She  was  in  prison,  and  this  was  her  cell, 
that  was  her  prison-yard.  And  she  was  alone,  quite, 
quite  alone. 

A  sob  rose  in  her  throat,  and  then  she  laughed  a  little 
hysterically,  as  she  remembered  their  way  with  those  who 
fainted.  And  sitting  limply  down,  she  warmed  herself 
at  the  fire,  and  dried  two  or  three  tears.  She  looked 
about  her  again,  eyed  again  the  whitewashed  walls,  and 
listened.  The  silence  was  complete ;  it  almost  frightened 
her.  And  her  door  had  no  fastening  on  the  inside.  That 
fact  moved  her  in  the  end  to  rise,  and  go  out  and  explore 
the  yard,  that  she  might  make  sure  before  the  light  failed 
that  no  one  was  locked  in  with  her,  that  no  one  lurked 
behind  the  closed  cell  doors, 


266  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

The  task  was  not  long.  She  tried  the  five  doors,  and 
found  them  all  locked ;  she  knocked  softly  on  them,  and 
got  no  answer.  The  pump,  the  iron  basin,  a  well  scrub- 
bed bench,  a  couple  of  besoms,  and  a  bucket,  she  had  soon 
reviewed  all  that  the  yard  held.  There  was  a  trap  or 
Judas-hole  in  the  outer  door,  and  another,  which  trou- 
bled her,  in  the  door  of  her  cell.  But  on  the  whole  the 
survey  left  her  reassured  and  more  at  ease;  the  place, 
though  cold,  bare,  and  silent,  was  her  own.  And  when 
her  tea  and  a  dip-candle  appeared  at  five  she  was  able 
to  show  the  jailor's  wife  a  cheerful  face. 

The  woman  had  heard  more  of  her  story  by  this  time, 
and  eyed  her  with  greater  interest,  and  less  rudely. 

"You'll  not  be  afraid  to  be  alone ?"  she  said.  '"You've 
no  need  to  be.  You're  safe  enough  here." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  Henrietta  answered  meekly.  "But 
— couldn't  I  have  a  fastening  on  my  door,  please?" 

"On  the  inside ?  Lord,  no !  But  I  can  lock  you  in  if 
you  like,"  with  a  grin. 

"  Oh  no !    I  did  not  mean  that !" 

"Well,  then  you  must  just  push  the  table  against  the 
door.  It's  against  rules,"  with  a  wink,  "but  I  shan't  be 
here  to  see."  And  pulling  her  woollen  shawl  more 
closely  about  her,  she  continued  to  stare  at  the  girl. 
Presently,  "Lord's  sakes !"  she  said,  "it's  a  queer  world ! 
I  suppose  you  never  was  in  a  jail  before  ?  Never  saw  the 
inside  of  one,  perhaps?" 

"No." 

"It's  something  political,  I'm  told,"  snuffing  the  can- 
dle with  her  fingers,  and  resuming  her  inquisitive 
stare. 

Henrietta  nodded. 

"With  a  man  in  it,  of  course!    Drat  the  men!    They 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

do  a  plagney  deal  of  mischief !  Many's  the  decent  lass 
that's  been  transported  because  of  them !" 

Henrietta's  smile  faded  suddenly. 

"I  hope  it's  not  as  bad  as  that/'  she  said. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  scrutinising  the  girl's  face. 
"It's  for  you  to  say.  The  officer  that  brought  you — 
quite  the  gentleman  too — told  us  it  was  something  to  do 
with  a  murder.  But  you  know  best." 

"I  hope  not!" 

"Well,  I  hope  not  too !  For  if  it  be,  if  11  be  mighty 
unpleasant  for  you.  It's  not  three  years  since  a  lad  I 
knew  myself  was  sent  across  seas  for  just  being  out  at 
night  with  a  rabbit-net.  So  it's  easy  done  and  soon 
over !  And  too  late  crying  when  the  milk's  spilt."  And 
once  more  snuffing  the  candle  and  telling  Henrietta  to 
leave  her  door  open  until  she  had  crossed  the  yard,  she 
took  herself  off.  Once  more,  but  now  with  a  sick  qualm, 
the  girl  heard  the  key  turned  on  her. 

"Transportation!"  She  did  not  know  precisely  what 
it  meant;  but  she  knew  that  it  meant  something  very 
dreadful.  "Transportation!  Oh,  it  is  impossible!"  she 
murmured,  "impossible !  I  have  done  nothing !" 

Yet  the  word  frightened  her,  the  shadow  of  the  thing 
haunted  her.  These  locks  and  bars,  this  solitude,  this 
cold  routine,  was  it  possible  that  once  in  their  clutch  the 
victim  slid  on,  helpless  and  numbed — to  something 
worse  ?  To-day,  deaf  to  her  protests,  they  had  sent  her 
here — sent  her  by  a  force  which  seemed  outside  them- 
selves. And  no  one  had  intervened  in  her  favour.  No 
one  had  stepped  forward  to  save  her  or  speak  for  her. 
Would  the  same  thing  befall  her  again  ?  Would  they  try 
her  in  the  same  impersonal  fashion — as  if  she  were  a 
thing,  a  chattel, — and  find  her  guilty,  condemn  her,  and 


268  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

hand  her  over  to  brutal  officials,  and — she  rose  from  her 
bench,  shuddering,  unable  to  bear  the  prospect.  She  had 
begun  the  descent,  must  she  sink  to  the  bottom  ?  Was 
it  inevitable  ?  Could  she  no  longer  help  herself  ?  Sick, 
shivering  with  sudden  fear  she  walked  the  floor. 

"Oh,  it  is  impossible !"  she  cried,  battling  against  her 
terror,  and  trying  to  reassure  herself.  "It  is  impossi- 
ble !"  And  for  the  time  she  succeeded  by  a  great  effort 
in  throwing  off  the  nightmare. 

No  one  came  near  her  again  that  evening.  And  quite 
early  the  dip  burned  low,  and  worn  out  and  tired  she 
went  to  bed,  only  partially  undressing  herself.  The  bed- 
ding, though  rough  and  horribly  coarse,  was  clean,  and, 
little  as  she  expected  it,  she  fell  asleep  quickly  in  the 
strange  stillness  of  the  prison. 

She  slept  until  an  hour  or  two  before  dawn.  Then  she 
awoke  and  sat  up  with  a  child's  cry  in  her  ears.  The  im- 
pression was  so  real,  so  vivid  that  the  bare  walls  of  the 
cell  seemed  to  ring  with  the  plaintive  voice.  Quaking 
and  perspiring  she  listened.  She  was  sure  that  it  was  no 
dream;  the  voice  had  been  too  real,  too  clear;  and  she 
wondered  in  a  panic  what  it  could  be.  It  was  only  slowly 
that  she  remembered  where  she  was  and  recognised 
that  no  child's  cry  could  reach  her  there.  Nor  was  it 
until  after  a  long  interval  that  she  lay  down  again. 

Even  then  she  was  not  alone.  The  image  of  a  little 
child,  lonely,  friendless,  and  terrified,  stayed  with  her, 
crouched  bv  her  pillow,  sat  weeping  in  the  dark  corners 
of  the  cell,  haunted  her.  She  tried  to  shake  off  the  de- 
lusion, bnt  the  attempt  was  in  vain.  Conscience,  that  in 
the  dark  hours  before  the  dawn  Rnhierts  all  to  his  scep- 
tre, began  to  torment  her.  Had  she  acted  rightly? 
Ought  she  to  have  put  the  child  first  and  her  romantic 


IN  KENDAL  GAOL  269 

notions  second  ?  And  if  any  ill  happened  to  it — and  it 
was  a  delicate,  puny  thing — would  it  lie  at  her  door  ? 

Remorse  began  to  rack  her.  She  wondered  that  she 
had  not  thought  more  of  the  child,  been  wrung  with  pity 
for  it,  sympathised  more  deeply  with  its  fears  and  its 
misery.  What,  beside  its  plight,  was  hers?  What,  be- 
side its  terrors,  were  her  fears?  Thus  tormenting  her- 
self she  lay  for  some  time,  and  was  glad  when  the  light 
stole  in  and  she  could  rise,  cold  as  it  was,  and  set  her 
bed  and  her  cell  in  order.  By  the  time  this  was  done, 
and  she  had  paced  for  half  an  hour  up  and  down  to 
warm  herself,  a  girl  of  eight,  the  jailor's  child,  came 
with  a  shovel  of  embers  and  helped  her  to  light  the  fire — 
staring  much  at  her  the  while. 

"Mother  said  I  could  help  you  make  your  bed,"  she 
began. 

Henrietta,  with  a  smile  said  that  she  had  made  it 
already. 

"Mother  thought  you'd  be  too  fine  to  make  it,"  still 
staring. 

"Well,  you  see  I  am  not." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  the  child  answered  candidly. 
''For  mother  said  you'd  have  to  come  to  it  and  to  worse, 
if  you  were  transported,  miss." 

Henrietta  winced  afresh,  and  looked  at  the  imp  less 
kindly. 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  be  transported,"  she  said  posi- 
tively. "You're  talking  nonsense." 

"There's  never  been  any  one  transported  from  here." 

"No  ?"  with  relief.    "Then  why  should  I  be ?"          , 

"But  there  was  a  man  hanged  three  years  ago.  It  was 
for  stealing  a  lamb.  They  didn't  let  me  see  it." 

"And  very  right,  too." 


270  IN  KENDAL  GAOL 

"But  mother's  promised" — with  triumph — "that  if 
you're  transported  I  shall  see  it!"  After  which  there 
was  silence  while  the  child  stared.  At  last,  "Are  you 
ready  for  your  breakfast  now  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  poor  Henrietta.  "But  I  am  not  very 
hungry — you  can  tell  your  mother." 


CHAPTER 

THE  ROLE  CONTINUED 

MR.  SUTTON  slept  as  ill  on  the  night  of  his  resigna- 
tion as  he  had  ever  slept  in  his  life.  And  many  times  as 
he  tossed  and  turned  on  his  hed  he  repented  at  leisure 
the  step  which  he  had  taken  in  haste.  Acting  upon  no 
previous  determination,  he  had  sacrificed  in  the  heat  of 
temper  his  whole  professional  future.  He  had  staked  his 
all;  and  he  had  done  no  good  even  to  the  cause  he  had 
at  heart.  The  act  would  not  bear  thinking  upon;  cer- 
tainly it  would  not  bear  the  cold  light  of  early  reflec- 
tion. And  many,  many  times  as  he  sighed  upon  his  un- 
easy pillow  did  he  wish,  as  so  many  have  wished  before 
and  since,  that  he  could  put  back  the  clock.  Had  he  left 
the  room  five  minutes  earlier,  had  he  held  his  tongue, 
however  ungraciously,  had  he  thought  before  he  spoke, 
he  had  done  as  much  for  Henrietta  and  he  had  done  no 
harm  to  himself.  And  he  had  been  as  free  as  he  was 
now,  to  seek  his  end  by  other  means. 

For  he  had  naught  to  do  now  but  seek  that  end.  He 
had  not  Mr.  Pitt's  nose  in  vain:  he  was  nothing  if  he 
was  not  stubborn.  And  while  Henrietta  might  easily 
have  had  a  more  discreet,  she  could  hardly  have  had  a 
more  persevering,  friend.  Amid  the  wreck  of  his  own 
fortunes,  with  his  professional  future  laid  in  ruins  about 
him,  he  clung  steadfastly  to  the  notion  of  righting  her, 
and  found  in  that  and  in  the  letter  in  his  book,  his  only 

271 


272  THE  R6LE  CONTINUED 

stay.  At  as  early  an  hour  as  he  considered  decent,  he 
would  apply  to  Mr.  Hornyold,  lay  the  evidence  before  the 
Justice,  and  press  for  the  girl's  release. 

Unfortunately,  he  lay  so  long  revolving  the  matter 
that  at  daybreak  he  fell  asleep.  The  house  was  busy  and 
no  one  gave  a  thought  to  him,  and  ten  had  struck  before 
he  came  down  and  shamefacedly  asked  for  his  breakfast. 
Mrs.  Gilson  put  it  before  him,  but  with  a  word  of  gird- 
ing at  his  laziness;  which  the  good  woman  could  not 
stomach,  when  half  the  countryside  were  on  foot  search- 
ing for  the  boy,  and  when  the  unhappy  father,  after  a 
night  in  the  saddle,  had  left  in  a  postchaise  to  follow  up 
a  clue  at  Keswick.  Blameworthy  or  not,  Mr.  Sutton 
found  the  delay  fatal.  When  he  called  on  Mr.  Hornyold, 
the  Justice  was  not  at  home.  He  had  left  the  house  and 
would  not  return  until  the  following  day. 

Sutton  might  have  anticipated  this  check,  but  he  had 
not ;  and  he  walked  back  to  the  inn,  plunged  to  the  very 
lips  in  despondency.  The  activity  of  the  people  about 
him,  their  eagerness  in  the  search,  their  enthusiasm,  all 
reflected  on  him  and  sank  him  in  his  own  esteem.  Yet 
if  he  would,  he  could  not  share  in  these  things  or  in 
these  feelings.  He  stood  outside  them;  his  sympathies 
were  fixed,  obstinately  fixed,  elsewhere.  And,  alas,  in 
the  only  direction  in  which  he  desired  to  proceed,  and  in 
which  he  discerned  a  possible  issue,  he  was  brought  to  a 
full  stop. 

He  was  in  the  mood  to  feel  small  troubles  sorely,  and 
as  he  neared  the  inn  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Gilson  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door.  It  vexed  him,  for  he  felt  that  he  cut  a 
poor  figure  in  the  landlady's  eyes.  He  knew  that  he 
seemed  to  her  a  sorry  thing,  slinking  idly  about  the 
house,  while  others  wrought  and  did.  He  feared  her 


THE  ROLE  CONTINUED  273 

sharp  tongue  and  vulgar  tropes,  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  pass  by  the  house  as  if  he  did  not  see  her.  He 
was  in  the  act  of  doing  this,  awkwardly  and  consciously, 
with  his  eyes  averted — when  she  called  to  him. 

"If  you're  looking  for  Squire  Clyne,"  she  said,  in 
very  much  the  tone  he  expected,  "he's  gone  these  three 
hours  past  and  some  to  that!" 

"I  was  not,"  he  said. 

"Oh!"  she  answered  with  sarcasm,  "I  suppose  you 
are  looking  for  the  boy.  You  will  not  find  him,  I'm 
afraid,  on  the  King's  highroad !" 

"I  was  not  looking  for  him,"  he  answered  churlishly. 

"More  shame  to  you !"  Mrs.  Gilson  cried,  with  a  spark 
in  her  eye.  "More  shame  to  you !  For  you  should  be!" 

He  flamed  up  at  that,  after  the  passionate  manner  of 
such  men  when  roused.  He  stopped  and  faced  her, 
trembling  a  little. 

"And  to  whom  is  it  a  shame,"  he  cried,  "that  wicked, 
foul  injustice  is  done  ?  To  whom  is  it  a  shame  that  the 
innocent  are  sent  to  herd  with  the  guilty  ?  To  whom  is 
it  a  shame — woman ! — that  when  there  is  good,  clear  evi- 
dence put  before  their  eyes,  it  is  not  read?  Nor  used? 
The  boy?"  vehemently,  "the  boy?  Is  he  the  only  one  to 
be  considered,  and  sought  and  saved  ?  Is  his  case  worse 
than  hers?  I  too  say  shame!" 

Mrs.  Gilson  stared.  "Lord  save  the  man!"  she  cried, 
as  much  astonished  as  if  a  sheep  had  turned  on  her, 
"with  his  shames  and  his  whoms !  He's  as  full  of  words 
as  a  Wensleydale  of  mites !  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
in  the  pulpit,  your  reverence,  but  on  foot  and  in  the  road, 
Mr.  Brougham  was  naught  to  you !" 

"He'd  not  the  reason,"  the  chaplain  answered  bitterly. 
And  brought  down  by  her  remark — for  his  passion  was 


274  THE  RdLE  CONTINUED 

of  the  shortest — he  turned,  and  was  moving  away,  mo- 
rose and  despondent,  when  the  landlady  called  after 
him  a  second  time,  but  in  a  more  friendly  tone.  Per- 
haps curiosity,  perhaps  some  new  perception  of  the  man 
moved  her. 

"See  here,  your  reverence,"  she  said.  "If  you've  a 
mind  to  show  me  this  fine  evidence  of  yours,  I'm  not  for 
saying  I'll  not  read  it.  Lord  knows  it's  ill  work  going 
about  like  a  hen  with  an  egg  she  can't  lay.  So  if  you've 
a  mind  to  get  it  off  your  mind,  I'll  send  for  my  glasses, 
and  be  done  with  it." 

"Will  you?"  he  replied,  his  face  flushing  with  the  hope 
of  making  a  convert.  "Will  you?  Then  there,  ma'am, 
there  it  is!  It's  the  letter  that  villain  sent  to  her  to 
draw  her  to  meet  him  that  night.  If  you  can't  see  from 
that  what  terms  they  were  on,  and  that  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  meet  him,  I — but  read  it !  Eead  it !" 

She  called  for  her  glasses  and  having  placed  them  on 
her  nose,  set  the  nose  at  such  an  angle  that  she  could 
look  down  it  at  the  page.  This  was  Mrs.  Gilson's  habit 
when  about  to  read.  But  when  all  was  arranged  her 
face  fell.  "Oh  dear!"  she  said,  "it's  all  bits  and  scraps, 
like  a  broken  curd!  Lord  save  the  man,  I  can't  read 
this.  I  canna  make  top  nor  tail  of  it !  Here,  let  me  take 
it  inside.  Truth  is,  I'm  no  scholar  in  the  open  air." 

The  chaplain,  trembling  with  eagerness,  set  straight 
three  or  four  bits  of  paper  which  he  had  deranged  in 
opening  the  book.  Then,  not  trusting  it  out  of  his  own 
hands,  he  bore  the  book  reverently  into  the  landlady's 
snuggery,  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Mrs.  Gilson  re- 
arranged her  nose  and  glasses,  and  after  gazing  helplessly 
for  a  few  moments  at  the  broken  screed,  caught  some 
thread  of  sense,  clung  to  it  desperately,  and  presently 


THE  ROLE  CONTINUED  375 

began  to  murmur  disjointed  sentences  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  thought  aloud. 

"Um — um — um — um  !" 

Had  the  chaplain  been  told  a  fortnight  before  that  he 
would  wait  with  bated  breath  for  an  old  woman's  opin- 
ion of  a  document,  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  notion. 
But  so  it  was;  and  when  a  ray  of  comprehension  broke 
the  frowning  perplexity  of  Mrs.  Gilson's  face,  and  she 
muttered,  "Lord  ha'  mercy!  The  villain!"  still  more 
when  an  April  cloud  of  mingled  anger  and  pity  softened 
her  massive  features — the  chaplain's  relief  was  itself  a 
picture. 

"A  plague  on  the  rascal!"  the  good  woman  cried. 
"He's  put  it  so  as  to  melt  a  stone,  let  alone  a  silly  child 
like  that!  I  don't  know  that  if  he'd  put  it  so  to  me, 
when  I  was  a  lass,  I'd  have  told  on  him.  I  don't  think  I 
would !" 

"It's  plain  that  she'd  no  understanding  with  him!" 
Mr.  Sutton  cried  eagerly.  "You  can  see  that,  ma'am!" 

"Well,  I  think  I  can.    The  villain !" 

"It's  quite  clear  that  she  had  broken  with  him!" 

"It  does  look  so,  poor  lamb !" 

"Poor  lamb  indeed!"  Mr.  Sutton  replied  with  feel- 
ing. "Poor  lamb  indeed !" 

"Yet  you'll  remember,"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered — she 
was  nothing  if  not  level-headed — "he'd  the  lad  to  think 
of !  He'd  his  boy  to  think  of !  I  am  sure  my  heart  bled 
for  him  when  he  went  out  this  morning.  I  doubt  he'd 
not  slept  a  wink,  and " 

"Do  you  think  she  slept  either?"  the  chaplain  asked, 
something  bitterly ;  and  his  eyes  glowed  in  his  pale  face. 
"Do  you  consider  how  young  she  is  and  gently  bred, 
ma'am?  And  where  they've  sent  her,  and  to  what?" 


276  THE  R6LE  CONTINUED 

"Umph !"  the  landlady  replied,  and  she  rubbed  her 
ponderous  cheek  with  the  bowl  of  a  punch-ladle,  and 
looked,  frowning,  at  the  letter.  The  operation,  it  was 
plain,  clarified  her  thoughts;  and  Mr.  Button's  instinct 
told  him  to  be  mute.  For  a  long  minute  the  distant 
clatter  of  Modest  Ann's  tongue,  and  the  clink  of  pat- 
tens in  the  yard,  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the 
lemon-laden  silence  of  the  room.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
glint  of  the  fire  on  the  rows  of  polished  glass,  perhaps 
the  sight  of  her  own  well-cushioned  chair,  perhaps  only 
a  memory  of  Henrietta's  fair  young  face  and  piled-up 
hair  that  wrought  upon  the  landlady.  But  whatever  the 
cause  she  groaned.  And  then,  "He  ought  to  see  this!" 
she  said.  "He  surely  ought!  And  dang  me,  he  shall, 
if  he  leaves  the  house  to-night!  After  all,  two  wrongs 
don't  make  a  right.  He's  to  Keswick  this  morning,  but 
an  hour  after  noon  he'll  be  back  to  learn  if  there's  news. 
It's  only  here  he  can  get  news,  and  if  he  has  not  found 
the  lad  he'll  be  back !  And  I'll  put  it  on  his  plate " 

"God  bless  you!"  cried  Mr.  Sutton. 

"Ay,  but  I'm  not  saying  he'll  do  anything,"  the  land- 
lady answered  tartly.  "If  all's  true  the  young  madam 
has  not  behaved  so  well  that  she'll  be  the  worse  for 
smarting  a  bit!" 

"She'll  be  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  chaplain 
humbly. 

"No,  she'll  not!"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted.  "Nor  to  you, 
don't  you  think  it!  She's  a  Tartar  or  I'm  mistaken. 
You'll  be  obliged,  you  mean!"  And  she  looked  at  the 
parson  over  her  glasses  as  if  she  were  appraising  him  in 
a  new  character. 

"I've  been  to  Mr.  Hornyold,"  he  said,  "but  he  was 
out  and  will  not  be  back  until  to-morrow," 


THE  ROLE  CONTINUED  277 

"Ay,  he's  more  in  his  boots  than  on  his  knees  most 
days,"  the  landlady  answered.  "But  what  I've  said,  I'll 
do,  that's  flat.  And  here's  the  coach,  so  it's  twelve  noon." 

She  tugged  at  the  cord  of  the  yard  bell,  and  its  loud 
jangle  in  a  twinkling  roused  the  house  to  activity  and 
the  stables  to  frenzy.  The  fresh  team  were  led  jingling 
and  prancing  out  of  the  yard,  the  ostlers  running  beside 
them.  Modest  Ann  and  her  underling  hastened  to  show 
themselves  on  the  steps  of  the  inn,  and  Mrs.  Gilson  her- 
self passed  into  the  passage  ready  to  welcome  any  vis- 
itor of  consequence. 

Mr.  Bishop  and  two  Lancashire  officers  who  had  been 
pushing  the  quest  in  the  Furness  district  descended  from 
the  outside  of  the  coach.  But  they  brought  no  news; 
and  Sutton,  as  soon  as  he  learned  this,  did  not  linger 
with  them.  The  landlady's  offer  could  not  have  any  im- 
mediate result,  since  Clyne  was  not  expected  to  return 
before  two;  and  the  chaplain,  to  kill  time,  went  out  at 
the  back,  and  climbed  the  hill.  He  walked  until  he  was 
tired,  and  then  he  turned,  and  at  two  made  his  way  back 
to  the  inn,  only  to  learn  that  Clyne  had  not  yet  arrived. 
None  the  less,  the  short  day  already  showed  signs  of 
drawing  in.  There  was  snow  in  the  sky.  It  hung  heavy 
above  Langdale  Pikes  and  over  the  long  ragged  screes 
of  Bow  Fell.  White  cushions  of  cloud  were  piled  one  on 
the  other  to  the  northward,  and  earth  and  sky  were  alike 
depressing.  Weary  and  despondent,  Sutton  wandered 
into  the  house,  and  sitting  down  before  the  first  fire  he 
found,  he  fell  fast  asleep. 

He  awoke  with  a  confused  murmur  of  voices  in  his 
ears.  The  room  was  dark  save  for  the  firelight ;  and  for 
a  few  seconds  he  fancied  that  he  was  still  alone.  The 
men  whose  talk  he  heard  were  in  another  part  of  the 


278  THE  RftLE  CONTINUED 

house,  and  soothed  by  their  babble  and  barely  conscious 
where  he  was,  he  was  sinking  away  again  when  a  harsh 
word  and  a  touch  on  his  sleeve  awoke  him.  He  sprang 
up,  startled  and  surprised,  and  saw  that  Captain  Clyne, 
his  face  fitfully  revealed  by  the  flame,  was  standing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  He  was  in  his  riding  boots 
and  was  splashed  to  the  waist. 

His  face  was  paler  than  usual,  and  his  pose  told  of 
fatigue. 

"Awake,  man,  awake!"  he  repeated.  "Didn't  you 
hear  me?" 

"No,  I — I  was  dozing,"  the  chaplain  faltered,  as  he 
put  back  his  chair. 

"Just  so,"  Clyne  answered  drily.  "I  wish  I  could 
sleep.  Well,  listen  now.  I  have  been  back  an  hour,  and 
I  have  read  this."  He  laid  his  hand  on  an  object  on  the 
table,  and  Sutton  with  joy  saw  that  the  object  was  the 
book  which  he  had  left  with  Mrs.  Gilson.  "I  am  sorry," 
Clyne  continued  in  a  constrained  tone,  "that  I  did  not 
read  it  last  evening.  I  was  wrong.  But — God  help  me, 
I  think  I  am  almost  mad !  Anyway  I  have  read  it  now, 
and  I  credit  it,  and  I  think  that — she  has  been  harshly 
treated.  And  I  am  here  to  tell  you,"  a  little  more  dis- 
tinctly, "that  you  can  arrange  the  matter  to  your  satis- 
faction, sir." 

Sutton  stared.  "Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I  may 
arrange  for  her  release?" 

"I  have  settled  that,"  Clyne  answered.  "Mr.  Hornyold 
is  not  at  home,  but  I  have  seen  Mr.  Le  Fleming,  and 
have  given  bail  for  her  appearance  when  required;  and 
here  is  Le  Fleming's  order  for  her  release.  I  have 
ordered  a  postchaise  to  be  ready  and  it  will  be  at  the  door 
in  ten  minutes." 


THE  R6LE  CONTINUED  279 

"But  then — all  is  done?"  the  chaplain  said. 

"Except  fetching  her  back,"  Clyne  answered.  "She 
must  come  here.  There  is  nowhere  else  for  her  to  go. 
But  I  leave  that  to  you,  since  her  release  is  due  to  you. 
I  have  done  her  an  injustice,  and  done  you  one  too.  But 
God  knows,"  he  continued  bitterly,  "not  without  provo- 
cation. Nor  willingly,  nor  knowingly." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  the  chaplain  answered  meekly. 

"Yes.  Of  course,"  Clyne  continued,  awkwardly,  "I 
shall  not  consider  what  you  said  to  me  as  said  at  all.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  doing  your  duty, 
Mr.  Sutton,  whatever  the  motive." 

"The  motive " 

"I  do  not  say,"  stiffly,  "that  the  motive  was  an  im- 
proper one.  Not  at  all.  I  cannot  blame  you  for  follow- 
ing up  my  own  plan." 

"I  followed  my  feelings,"  Mr.  Sutton  replied,  with  a 
fresh  stirring  of  resentment. 

"Exactly.  And  therefore  it  seems  to  me  that  as  she 
owes  her  release  to  your  exertions,  it  is  right  that  you 
should  be  the  one  to  communicate  the  fact  to  her,  and 
the  one  to  bring  her  away." 

The  chaplain-saw  that  his  patron,  persuaded  that  there 
was  more  between  them  than  he  had  supposed,  fell  back 
on  the  old  plan ;  that  he  was  willing  to  give  him  the  op- 
portunity of  pushing  his  suit.  And  the  blood  rushed  to 
his  face.  If  she  could  be  brought — if  she  could  be 
brought  to  look  favourably  on  him!  Ah,  then  indeed 
he  was  a  happy  man,  and  the  dark  night  of  despondency 
would  be  followed  by  a  morn  of  joy.  But  with  the  quick- 
ness of  light  his  thoughts  passed  over  the  various  occa- 
sions— they  were  very  few — on  which  he  had  addressed 
her.  And — and  an  odd  thing  happened.  It  happened, 


280  THE  R6LE  CONTINUED 

perhaps,  because  with  the  chaplain  the  matter  was  no 
longer  a  question  of  ambition,  but  of  love.  "You  have 
no  news  ?"  he  said. 

"None.  And  Nadin,"  with  bitterness,  "seems  to  be  at 
the  end  of  his  resources." 

"Then,  Captain  Clyne,"  Sutton  replied  impulsively, 
"there  is  but  one  way!  There  is  but  one  thing  to  be 
done.  It  is  not  I,  but  you,  who  must  bring  Miss  Darner 
back.  She  may  still  speak,  but  not  for  me !" 

"And  certainly  not  for  me !"  Clyne  answered,  his  face 
flushing  at  the  recollection  of  his  violence. 

"For  you  rather  than  for  any  one !" 

"No,  no!" 

"Yes,"  the  chaplain  rejoined  firmly.  "I  do  not  know 
how  I  know  it,"  he  continued  with  dignity,  "but  I  know 
it.  For  one  thing,  I  am  not  blind.  Miss  Darner  has 
never  given  me  a  word  or  a  look  of  encouragement.  If 
she  thanks  me,"  he  spoke  with  something  like  a  tear  in 
his  eye,  "it  will  be  much — the  kind  of  thanks  you,  Cap- 
tain Clyne,  give  the  servant  that  lacquers  your  boots,  or 
the  dog  that  fetches  your  stick.  But  you — with  you  it 
will  be  different." 

"  She  has  no  reason  to  thank  me,"  Clyne  declared. 

"Yet  she  will." 

"No." 

"She  will!"  Sutton  answered  fervently — he  was  de- 
termined to  carry  out  his  impulsive  act  of  unselfishness. 
"And,  thank  you  or  not  thank  you,  she  may  speak.  She 
will  speak,  when  released,  if  ever !  She  is  one  who  will 
do  nothing  under  compulsion,  nothing  under  durance. 
But  she  will  do  much — for  love." 

Clyne  looked  with  astonishment  at  the  chaplain.  He, 
like  Mrs.  Gilson,  was  appraising  him  afresh,  was  finding 


THE  R6LE  CONTINUED  281 

something  new  in  him,  something  unexpected.  "How  do 
you  know  ?"  he  asked,  his  cheeks  reddening. 

There  were  for  certain  tears  in  Mr.  Button's  eyes  now. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  know,"  he  said,  "but  I  do.  I 
know !  Go  and  fetch  her ;  and  I  think,  I  think  she  will 
speak." 

Clyne  thought  otherwise,  and  had  good  reason  to 
think  otherwise;  a  reason  which  he  was  ashamed  to  tell 
his  chaplain.  But  in  the  face  of  his  own  view  he  was 
impressed  by  Sutton's  belief.  The  suggestion  was  at 
least  a  straw  to  which  he  could  cling.  Failing  other 
means — and  the  ardour  of  his  assistants  in  the  search 
was  beginning  to  flag — why  should  he  not  try  this  ?  Why 
should  he  not,  threats  failing,  throw  himself  at  the  girl's 
feet,  abase  himself,  humble  himself,  try  at  least  if  he 
could  not  win  by  prayer  and  humility  what  she  had  re- 
fused to  force. 

It  was  a  plan  little  to  the  man's  taste ;  grievous  to  his 
pride.  But  for  his  son's  sake,  for  the  innocent  boy's 
sake,  he  was  willing  to  do  even  this.  Moreover,  with  all 
his  coldness,  he  had  sufficient  nobility  to  feel  that  he 
owed  the  girl  the  fullest  amends  in  his  power.  He  had 
laid  hands  on  her.  He  had  treated  her — no  matter  what 
the  provocation — cruelly,  improperly,  in  a  manner  de- 
grading to  her  and  disgraceful  to  himself.  His  face 
flushed  as  he  recalled  the  scene  and  his  violence.  Now 
it  was  hers  to  triumph,  hers  to  blame :  nor  his  to  with- 
hold the  opportunity. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  perturbed  silence. 
"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  advice.  You  think  that 
there  is  a  chance  she  will  speak?" 

"I  do,"  Sutton  answered  manfully.  "I  do."  And  he 
said  more  to  the  same  purpose. 


282  THE  ROLE  CONTINUED 

But  later,  when  the  hot  fit  ebbed,  he  wondered  at  him- 
self. What  had  come  over  him  ?  Why  had  he,  who  had 
so  little  while  his  patron  had  so  much,  given  up  his  ewe 
lamb,  his  one  chance  ?  Reason  answered,  because  he  had 
no  chance  and  it  was  wise  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
But  he  knew  that,  a  day  or  two  before,  he  would  have 
snapped  his  fingers  at  reason,  he  would  have  clung  to  his 
forlorn  hope,  he  would  have  made  for  his  own  advantage 
by  the  nearest  road.  What  then  had  changed  him? 
What  had  caused  him  to  set  the  girl's  happiness  before 
his  own,  and  whispered  to  him  that  there  was  only  one 
way  by  which,  smirched  and  discredited  as  she  was,  she 
whom  he  loved  could  reach  her  happiness  ?  He  did  not 
answer  the  question,  perhaps  he  did  not  know  the  an- 
swer. But  wandering  in  the  darkness  by  the  lake-side, 
with  the  first  snowflakes  falling  on  his  shoulders,  he 
cried  again  and  again,  "  God  bless  her !  God  bless  her !" 
with  tears  running  down  his  pale,  insignificant  face. 


CHAPTER  XXTT; 

PBISON  EXPERIENCES 

WHEN  Henrietta  rose  on  the  second  morning  of  her 
imprisonment,  and  opened  her  door  and  looked  out,  she 
met  with  an  unpleasant  surprise.  Snow  had  fallen  in 
the  night,  and  lay  almost  an  inch  deep  in  the  yard.  The 
sheet  of  dazzling  white  cast  the  dingy  spiked  wall  and 
the  mean  cell-doors  into  grey  relief.  But  it  was  not  this 
contrast,  nor  the  memory  of  childish  winters  with  their 
pleasures — though  that  memory  took  her  hy  the  throat 
and  promised  to  choke  her — that  filled  her  with  imme- 
diate dismay.  It  was  the  difficulty  of  performing  the 
prison  duties,  of  going  beyond  her  door,  and  refilling  her 
water-pitcher  at  the  pump.  To  cross  the  yard  in  san- 
daled shoes — such  as  she  and  the  girls  of  that  day  wore 
— was  to  spoil  her  shoes  and  wet  her  feet.  Yet  she  could 
not  live  without  water ;  the  more  as  she  had  an  instinc- 
tive fear  of  losing,  under  the  pressure  of  hardship,  those 
refinements  in  which  she  had  been  bred.  At  length  she 
was  about  to  venture  out  at  no  matter  what  cost,  when 
the  door  of  the  yard  opened,  and  the  jailor's  wife  came 
stumbling  through  the  snow  on  a  pair  of  pattens.  She 
carried  a  second  pair  in  her  hand,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
in  anything  but  a  pleasant  humour. 

"Here's  a  mess !"  she  said,  throwing  down  the  pattens 
and  looking  about  her  with  disgust.  "By  rights,  you 
should  set  to  work  to  clear  this  away,  before  it's  running 

283 


284  PRISON   EXPERIENCES 

all  of  a  thaw  into  your  room.  But  I  dare  say  it  will 
wait  till  midday — it  don't  get  much  sun  here — and  my 
good  man  will  come  and  do  it.  Anyways,  there  are  some 
pattens,  so  that  you  can  get  about — there's  as  good  as 
you  have  gone  on  pattens  before  now !  Ay,  and  mopped 
the  floor  in  them!  And  by-and-by  my  girl  will  bring 
you  some  fire  'gainst  you're  ready  for  your  breakfast." 

"I'm  ready  whenever  the  breakfast  is  ready,"  Henri- 
etta answered,  as  cheerfully  as  she  could.  She  was 
shivering  with  cold. 

"Ah,  well,  ah,  well,  my  lass!"  the  woman  answered 
snappishly,  "there's  worse  troubles  in  the  world  than 
waiting  for  your  breakfast.  For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't 
you  get  complaining." 

"I  wasn't  complaining,  indeed!"  Henrietta  said. 

"Think  of  the  doing  we've  had  this  night!" 

"I  heard,"  the  girl  answered.  And  an  involuntary 
shudder  escaped  her.  "It  was  dreadful!  dreadful!" 

"You'd  ha'  thought  so,"  ungraciously,  "if  you  had 
had  to  deal  with  the  lad  yourself!  Never  was  such  a 
Jack  o?  Bedlam !  I  wonder  all  our  heads  aren't  broke." 

"Is  he  often  like  that?"  Henrietta  asked. 

For  she  had  lain  awake  many  hours  of  the  night, 
trembling  and  trying  to  close  her  ears  against  the  rav- 
ings of  a  madman;  who  was  confined  in  the  next  yard, 
and  who  had  suffered  an  access  of  mania  during  the 
night.  The  prisons  of  that  day  served  also  for  mad- 
houses. 

"N"o,  but  once  in  the  month  or  so,"  the  jailor's  wife 
answered.  "And  often  enough,  drat  him!  Doctor  says 
he'll  go  off  in  one  of  these  Bedlam  fits,  and  the  sooner 
the  better,  I  say !  But  I'm  wasting  my  time  and  catch- 
ing my  death,  gossipping  with  you !  Anyway,  don't  you 


PRISON   EXPERIENCES  285 

complain,  young  woman,"  severely.  "There's  worse  off 
than  you !"  And  she  clattered  abruptly  away,  and  Hen- 
rietta was  left  to  patten  her  road  to  the  pump  and  back, 
and  afterwards  to  finish  her  toilette  in  what  shivering 
comfort  she  might. 

For  a  prisoner,  she  might  not  have  much  of  which  to 
complain.  But  though  that  was  not  the  day  of  bedroom 
fires,  or  rubber  water-bottles,  and  luxury  stopped  at 
the  warming-pan,  or  the  heated  brick,  there  are  degrees 
of  misery,  and  this  degree  was  new  to  her. 

However,  the  woman  was  better  than  her  word,  for 
in  a  short  time  her  child  appeared,  painfully  bearing  at 
arm's  length  a  shovelful  of  live  embers.  And  the  fire 
put  a  new  face  on  things.  Breakfast  sent  in  from  out- 
side followed,  and  was  drawn  out  to  the  utmost  for  the 
sake  of  the  employment  which  it  afforded.  For  time  hung 
heavy  on  the  girl's  hands.  She  had  long  exhausted  the 
Kendal  Chronicle ;  and  a  volume  of  "  Sermons  for  Per- 
sons under  Sentence  of  Death" — the  property  of  the 
gaol — she  had  steadfastly  refused.  Other  reading  there 
was  none,  and  she  was  rather  gratified  than  troubled 
when  she  espied  a  thin  trickle  of  water  stealing  under 
the  door.  The  snow  in  the  yard  was  melting;  and  it 
was  soon  made  plain  to  her  that  if  she  did  not  wish  to 
be  flooded  she  must  act  for  herself. 

The  task  was  not  very  congenial  to  a  girl  gently  bred, 
and  who  had  all  her  life  associated  such  work  with  Doll 
and  a  mop.  But  on  her  first  entrance  into  the  gaol  she 
had  resolved  to  do,  as  the  lesser  of  two  evils,  whatever  she 
should  be  told  to  do.  And  the  thing  might  have  been 
worse,  for  there  was  no  one  to  see  her  at  work.  She 
kilted  up  her  skirt  and  donned  the  pattens,  put  on  her 
hood,  and  taking  a  broom  from  the  corner  ot  the  yard 


286  PRISON   EXPERIENCES 

began  to  sweep  vigorously,  first  removing  the  snow  from 
the  flags  before  her  door,  and  then,  as  the  space  she  had 
cleared  grew  wider,  gathering  the  snow  into  a  heap  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  yard. 

She  was  soon  warm  and  in  the  full  enjoyment  of 
action.  But  in  no  long  time,  as  was  natural,  she  tired, 
and  paused  to  rest  and  look  about  her,  supporting  her- 
self by  the  broom-handle.  A  robin  alighted  on  a  spike 
on  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  flirting  its  tail,  eyed  her  in  a 
friendly  way,  with  its  head  on  one  side.  Then  it  flew 
away — it  could  fly  away !  And  at  the  thought, 

"What,"  she  wondered,  "would  come  of  it  all?  What 
would  be  the  end  for  her  ?  And  had  they  found  the  boy  ?" 

Already  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  lain  a  week,  a 
month  in  the  gaol.  The  people  outside  must  have  for- 
gotten her.  Would  she  be  forgotten?  Would  they  leave 
her  there  ? 

But  she  would  not  give  way  to  such  thoughts,  and  she 
set  to  work  again  with  new  energy.  Swish !  swish !  Her 
hands  were  growing  sore,  but  she  had  nearly  finished  the 
task.  She  looked  complacently  at  the  wide  space  she 
had  cleared,  and  stooped  to  pin  up  one  side  of  her  gown 
which  had  slipped  down.  Then,  swish !  swish !  with  re- 
newed vigour,  unconscious  that  the  noise  of  her  sweep- 
ing drowned  the  grating  of  the  key  in  the  lock.  So  that 
she  was  not  aware  until  a  voice  struck  her  ear,  that  she 
was  no  longer  alone. 

Then  she  wheeled  about  so  sharply  that,  unused  to 
pattens,  she  stumbled  and  all  but  fell.  The  accident 
added  to  her  vexation.  Her  face  turned  red  as  a  beet. 
For  inside  the  door  of  the  yard,  contemplating  her  with 
a  smile  at  once  familiar  and  unpleasant,  stood  Mr. 
Hornyold. 


PRISON   EXPERIENCES  287 

"Dear,  dear,"  he  said,  as  she  glowered  at  him  resent- 
fully, ashamed  at  once  of  her  short  skirts  and  the  task 
that  compelled  them.  "They  shouldn't  have  put  you  to 
this !  Though  I'm  sure  a  prettier  sight  you'd  go  far  to 
see!  But  your  hands  are  infinitely  too  white  and  soft, 
my  dear — much  too  white  and  pretty  to  be  spoiled  by 
broom-handles!  I  must  speak  to  Mother  Weighton 
about  it." 

"Perhaps  if  you  would  kindly  go  out  a  moment,"  she 
said  with  spirit,  "it  were  better.  I  could  then  put  my- 
self in  order." 

"Not  for  the  world!"  Mr.  Hornyold  retorted,  with 
something  between  a  leer  and  a  wink.  "You're  very 
well  as  you  are!"  with  a  look  at  her  ankles.  "There's 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  I'm  sure,  but  the  contrary. 
I'm  told  that  Lady  Jersey  at  Almack's  shows  more,  and 
with  a  hundred  to  see !  So  you  need  not  mind.  And 
you  could  not  look  nicer  if  you'd  done  it  on  purpose." 

With  a  jerk  she  disengaged  her  shoes  from  the  pat- 
tens, dropped  the  broom,  and  made  for  the  door  of  her 
room,  with  such  dignity  as  her  kilted  skirt  left  her.  But 
before  she  reached  it : 

"Steady,  my  lady,"  said  Mr.  Hornyold  in  a  tone  no 
longer  wheedling,  but  harsh  and  peremptory,  "you're 
forgetting!  You  are  in  gaol,  and  you'll  be  pleased  to 
stop  when  you're  told,  and  do  as  you're  told !  Don't  you 
be  in  such  a  hurry,  my  dear.  I  am  here  to  learn  if  you 
have  any  complaints." 

"Only  of  your  presence !"  she  cried,  her  face  burning. 
"If  you  have  come  here  only  to  insult  me,  I  have  heard 
enough." 

And  having  gained  her  cell  in  spite  of  him,  she  tried 
to  slam  the  door  in  his  face. 


288  PRISON   EXPERIENCES 

But  he  had  had  time  to  approach,  and  he  set  the 
handle  of  his  whip  between  door  and  jamb,  and  stopped 
her. 

"I'm  not  come  for  that,  I  tell  you,  you  pretty  spit- 
fire," he  said;  "I've  come  to  hear  if  you  have  any  com- 
plaints of  your  treatment  here." 

"I  have  not !"  she  cried. 

"Come,  come,"  he  rejoined,  checking  her  with  a  grin, 
"you  must  not  answer  the  Visiting  Justice  in  that  tone. 
Say,  'I  have  none,  sir,  I  thank  you  kindly,' — that's  the 
proper  form,  my  dear.  You'll  know  better  another  time. 
Or" — smiling  more  broadly  as  he  read  the  angry  refusal 
in  her  eyes — "we  shall  have  to  put  you  to  beat  hemp. 
And  that  were  a  pity.  Those  pretty  hands  would  soon 
lose  their  softness,  and  those  dainty  wrists  that  are  not 
much  bigger  than  my  thumbs  would  be  sadly  spoiled. 
But  we  won't  do  that,"  indulgently.  "We  are  never  hard 
on  pretty  girls  as  long  as  they  behave  themselves." 

She  looked  round  wildly,  but  there  was  no  escape. 
She  could  retreat  no  farther.  The  man  filled  the  door- 
way ;  the  room  lay  open  to  his  insolent  eyes,  and  he  did 
not  spare  to  look. 

"Neat  as  a  pin!"  he  said  complacently.  "Just  as  it 
should  be.  A  place  for  everything,  and  everything  in 
its  place.  I've  nothing  but  praise  for  it.  I  never 
thought  that  it  would  ever  be  my  lot  to  commend  Miss 
Darner  for  the  neatness  of  her  chamber!  But — good 
Lord !"  with  surprise,  "what's  the  matter  with  your 
wrist,  my  girl  ?" 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  the  angry  scarlet  of  her  cheek 
turning  a  shade  deeper. 

"Nothing?  Oh,  but  there  is!"  he  returned  peremp- 
torily. 


PRISON    EXPERIENCES  289 

"Nothing!"  she  repeated  fiercely.  "Nothing!  It's 
nothing  that  matters !" 

Oh,  how  she  hated  the  man !  How  she  loathed  his  red, 
insolent  grin !  Would  he  never  leave  her  ?  Was  she  to 
be  exposed,  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour,  to  this  horror  ? 

He  eyed  her  shrewdly. 

"You  haven't  been  turning  stubborn?"  he  said,  "have 
you?  And  they've  had  to  handle  you  already?  And 
bring  you  to  your  senses  ?  And  so  they  have  set  you  to 
brooming?  But  Bishop,"  with  a  frown,  "gave  me  no 
notion  of  that.  He  said  you  came  like  a  lamb." 

"It's  not  that!"  she  cried.  "It's  nothing."  It  was 
not  only  that  she  was  ashamed  of  the  mark  on  her  arm, 
and  shrank  from  showing  it.  But  his  leering,  insolent 
face  terrified  her.  Though  he  was  not  tipsy,  he  had 
spent  the  small  hours  at  a  club;  and  the  old  port 
still  hummed  in  his  brain.  "It's  not  that,"  she  re- 
peated firmly,  and  more  quietly,  hoping  to  get  rid  of 
him. 

"Here,"  he  answered,  "let  me  look  at  it." 

"No!" 

"Pooh,  nonsense !"  he  replied,  pressing  his  advantage, 
and  entering  the  cell.  "Nonsense,  girl,  let  me  look  at 
it."  He  stepped  nearer,  and  peremptorily  held  out  his 
hand.  He  could  touch  her.  She  could  feel  his  hot 
breath  on  her  cheek.  "There's  no  room  here  for  airs 
and  tempers,"  he  continued.  "How,  if  I  don't  see  it, 
am  I  to  know  that  they  have  not  been  ill-treating  you? 
Show  me  your  wrist,  girl." 

But  she  recoiled  from  him  into  the  farthest  corner, 
holding  her  arms  behind  her.  Her  face  was  a  picture 
of  passionate  defiance. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  cried.    "Don't  come  near  me! 


290  PRISON   EXPERIENCES 

You've  no  right  to  touch  me.  They  have  not  hurt  my 
wrist.  I  tell  you  it  is  nothing.  And  if  you  lay  a  finger 
on  me  I  will  scream !" 

"Then,"  he  said  coolly,  "they'll  put  you  in  a  strait 
waistcoat,  my  lass,  like  the  madman  next  door.  That's 
all !  You're  mighty  particular,  but  you  forget  where  you 
are." 

"You  forget  that  I  am  a  gentlewoman!"  she  cried. 
She  could  not  retreat  farther,  but  she  looked  at  him  as 
if  she  could  have  killed  him.  "  Stand  back,  sir,  I  say !" 
she  continued  fiercely.  "If  you  do  not " 

"What  will  you  do ?"  he  asked.  He  enjoyed  the  situa- 
tion, but  he  was  not  sure  how  far  it  would  be  prudent  to 
push  it.  If  he  could  contrive  to  surprise  her  wrist  it 
would  be  odd  if  he  could  not  snatch  a  kiss;  and  it  was 
his  experience — in  his  parish — that  once  fairly  kissed, 
young  women  came  off  the  high  horse,  and  proved 
amenable.  "What'll  you  do,"  he  continued  facetiously, 
"you  silly  little  prude  ?" 

"Do?"  she  panted. 

"Ay,  Miss  Dainty  Darner,  what'll  you  do?"  with  a 
feigned  movement  as  if  to  seize  her.  "You're  not  on 
the  highway  now,  you  know !  Nor  free  on  bail !  Nor  is 
there  a  parson  here !" 

There  he  stopped — a  faint,  faint  sound  had  fallen 
on  his  ear.  He  looked  behind  him,  and  stepped  back 
as  if  a  string  drew  him.  And  his  face  changed  marvel- 
lously. In  the  doorway  stood,  hat  in  hand,  the  last 
person  in  the  world  he  wished  to  see  there — Captain 
Clyne. 

Clyne  did  not  utter  a  syllable,  but  he  beckoned  to  the 
other  to  come  out  to  him.  And,  with  a  chap-fallen  look 
and  a  brick-red  face,  Hornyold  complied,  and  went  out 


PRISON   EXPERIENCES  291 

Clyne  closed  the  door  on  the  girl — that  she  might  not 
hear.  And  the  two  men  alone  in  the  yard  confronted 
one  another,  dyne's  face  was  dark. 

"I  overheard  your  last  words,  Mr.  Hornyold,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  low  but  stern.  "And  you  are  mistaken.  There 
is  a  parson  here — who  has  forgotten  that  he  is  a  gentle- 
man. It  is  well  for  him,  very  well,  that  having  forgot- 
ten that  fact  he  remains  a  parson." 

Hornyold  tried  to  bluster,  tried  to  face  the  other  down 
and  save  the  situation.  "I  don't  understand  you!"  he 
said.  "What  does  this  mean?"  He  was  the  taller  man 
and  the  bigger,  but  Clyne's  air  of  contemptuous  mastery 
made  him  appear  the  smaller.  "I  don't  understand 
you,"  he  repeated.  "The  young  lady — I  merely  came 
to  visit  her." 

"The  less,"  Clyne  retorted,  cutting  him  short,  "said 
about  her  the  better !  I  understand  perfectly,  sir,"  with 
severity,  "if  you  do  not!  Perfectly.  And  I  desire  you 
to  understand  that  it  is  your  cloth  only  that  protects  you 
from  the  punishment  you  deserve !" 

"That's  easy  said!"  Hornyold  answered  with  a  poor 
attempt  at  defiance.  "Easy!  What!  Are  we  to  have 
all  this  fuss  about  a  chit  that " 

"Silence,  sir!"  And  Clyne's  voice  rang  so  loud  that 
the  other  not  only  obeyed  but  stepped  back,  as  if  he 
feared  a  blow.  "  Silence,  sir !  I  know  you  well  enough, 
and  your  past,  to  know  that  you  cannot  afford  a  scandal. 
And  you  know  me!  I  advise  you,  therefore,  when  you 
have  passed  that  door" — he  pointed  to-  the  door  leading 
to  the  prison  lodge,  "to  keep  a  still  tongue,  and  to  treat 
this  lady's  name  with  respect.  If  not  for  the  sake  of 
your  own  character,  for  the  sake,  at  any  rate,  of  your  ill- 
earned  stipends." 


292  PRISON    EXPERIENCES 

"Fine  words!"  Hornyold  muttered,  with  a  sneer  of 
bravado. 

"I  will  make  them  good,"  Clyne  answered.  And  the 
look  and  the  tone  were  such  that  the  other,  high  as  he 
wished  to  carry  it,  thought  discretion  the  better  part. 
He  turned,  still  sneering,  on  his  heel,  and  cutting  the 
air  with  his  whip  made  his  way  with  what  dignity  he 
might  to  the  door.  He  hesitated  an  instant  and  then  dis- 
appeared, raging  inwardly. 

The  moment  he  was  gone  dyne's  face  relaxed.  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  as  if  to  recall  his  thoughts, 
and  he  sighed  deeply.  Then  turning  he  went  slowly  to 
Henrietta's  door  and  tapped  on  it.  The  girl  opened. 
"May  I  speak  to  you  ?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she  stepped  out.  She  had 
recovered  her  self-control — quickly  and  completely,  as 
women  do;  and  her  face  told  nothing.  Whatever  she 
thought  of  his  intervention  and  of  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  routed  Hornyold,  she  made  no  sign.  She  waited 
for  him  to  speak.  Yet  she  was  aware  not  only  of  his 
downcast  carriage,  but  of  the  change  which  sleepless 
nights  and  days  of  unutterable  suspense  had  wrought  in 
his  face.  His  features  were  thinner  and  sharper,  his 
temples  more  hollow :  and  there  was  a  listening,  hungry 
look  in  his  eyes  which  did  not  quit  them  even  when  he 
dealt  with  other  things  than  his  loss. 

"I  have  brought  an  order  for  your  release,"  he 
said  without  an  attempt  at  preface.  "I  have  given 
bail  for  your  appearance  when  needed.  You  are  free 
to  go.  You  have  not  to  thank  me,  however,  but  Mr. 
Sutton,  who  discovered  the  letter  that  was  written  to 
you " 

She  interrupted  him  by  an  exclamation. 


PRISON   EXPERIENCES  293 

"The  letter,"  he  continued  mechanically,  "that  was 
written  to  you  making  an  appointment." 

"Impossible!"  she  cried.    "I  destroyed  it." 

"He  put  it  together  again/'  he  answered  in  the  same 
tone.  "I — we  are  all  indebted  to  him.  Deeply  indebted 
to  him !  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  more  to  be 
said,"  he  continued  dully,  "except  that  I  have  come  to 
take  you  back.  I  was  coming  last  evening,  but  the  snow 
prevented  me." 

"And  that  is  all — you  have  to  say?" 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  so  much  sadness  in 
their  depths,  with  such  utter  dejection  in  his  looks,  that 
in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  keep  it  alive,  her  anger 
drooped.  "Except  that  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  am 
sorry.  We  have  treated  you — badly  amongst  us."1 

"You!"  she  said  vindictively. 

"I,  if  you  like.    Yes,  I.    It  is  true." 

She  called  up  the  remembrance  of  the  severity  with 
which  he  had  judged  her  and  the  violence  of  which  her 
wrist  still  wore  the  traces.  She  pictured  the  disgrace  of 
the  prison  and  her  fears,  the  nights  of  apprehension  and 
the  days  of  loneliness,  ay,  and  the  insolence  of  the  wretch 
who  had  just  left  her — she  owed  all  to  him !  All !  And 
yet  she  could  not  keep  her  anger  hot.  She  tried.  She 
tried  to  show  him  something  of  what  she  felt.  "You!" 
she  repeated.  "And  now  you  think,"  bitterly,  "that  I 
shall  bear  to  go  back  to  the  place  from  which  you  sent 
me  ?  Sent  me  in  open  disgrace — in  that  man's  charge — 
with  no  woman  with  me  ?" 

"God  help  me !"  he  said.  "I  know  not  what  to  think 
or  do !  I  thought  that  if  I  took  you  back  myself,  that 
would  perhaps  be  best  for  all." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then,  "I  have  been  very, 


294  PRISON   EXPERIENCES 

very  unhappy,"  she  said  in  a  different  tone.  And  even 
while  she  said  it  she  wondered  why  she  complained  to 
him,  instead  of  accusing  him,  and  blaming  him. 

"I  believe  it,"  he  said  slowly.  "We  have  wronged  one 
another.  Let  it  stand  at  that." 

"You  believe,  you  do  believe  now,"  she  said,  "that  I 
had  no  hand  in  stealing  him?" 

"I  do." 

"And  knew  naught  of  it,"  she  insisted  earnestly,  "be- 
fore or  after  ?" 

"I  do." 

"I  would  have  cut  off  my  hand  first!"  she  said. 

"I  believe  it,"  he  answered  sorrowfully. 

Then  they  were  both  silent.  And  she  wondered  at 
herself.  Why  did  she  not  hate  him  ?  Why  did  she  not 
pour  out  on  him  the  vials  of  her  indignation  ?  He  had 
treated  her  badly,  always  badly.  The  wrong  which  she 
had  done  him  in  the  first  place,  he  had  avenged  by  a 
gross  insult  to  her  womanhood.  Then  not  satisfied  with 
that,  he  had  been  quick  to  believe  the  worst  of  her.  He 
had  been  violent  to  her,  he  had  bullied  her :  and  when  he 
found  that  she  was  not  to  be  wrung  to  compliance  with 
his  orders,  he  had  degraded  her  to  a  public  prison  as  if 
she  had  been  the  worst  of  her  sex — instead  of  his  kith 
and  kin.  Even  now  when  his  eyes  were  open  to  his  in- 
justice, even  now  when  he  acknowledged  that  he  owed 
amends,  he  came  to  her  with  a  few  poor  words,  meagre, 
scanty  words,  a  miserable  "I  am  sorry,  you  are  free." 
And  that  was  all.  That  was  all ! 

And  yet  her  rage  drooped  cold,  her  spirit  seemed  dead. 
The  scathing  reproaches,  the  fierce  truths  which  had 
bubbled  to  her  lips  as  she  lay  feverish  on  her  prison-bed, 
the  hot  tears  which  had  scalded  her  eyes,  now  that  she 


PRISON   EXPERIENCES  295 

might  give  them  vent,  now  that  he  might  be  wounded  by 
them  and  made  to  see  his  miserableness — were  not !  She 
stood  mute  and  pale,  wondering  at  the  change,  wonder- 
ing at  her  mildness.  And  when  he  said  meekly,  "The 
chaise  is  ready,  will  you  make  your  preparations  ?"  she 
went  to  do  his  bidding  as  if  she  had  done  nothing  but 
obey  him  all  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  RECONCILIATION 

WHEN  she  had  filled  her  band-box,  and  with  a  tearful 
laugh  looked  her  last  on  the  cell,  she  emerged  from  the 
yard.  She  found  Captain  Clyne  awaiting  her  with  his 
hand  on  the  key  of  the  prison  gate.  He  saw  her  look 
doubtfully  at  the  closed  lodge-door ;  and  he  misread  the 
look. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "that  you  would  wish  to  be 
spared  seeing  more  of  them.  I  have,"  with  a  faint  smile, 
"authority  to  open." 

"Oh !"  she  answered,  wrinkling  her  pretty  brow  in  per- 
plexity. "But  I  must  see  them,  please.  They  have  not 
been  unkind  to  me,  and  I  should  not  like  to  go  without 
thanking  them." 

And  before  he  could  remonstrate,  she  had  pushed  open 
the  lodge  door  and  gone  within. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Weighton,"  he  heard  her  cry,  "you'll  give 
me  a  character,  won't  you?  I've  behaved  well  now, 
haven't  I?" 

"Yes,  miss,  I'll  say  that,"  the  woman  answered 
stolidly. 

"I  haven't  scratched  nor  screamed,  and  I've  done  as 
I've  been  bid?  And  you've  had  no  use  for  the  pump 
water?" 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  swept  out  the  yard/'  grudgingly; 
296 


A  RECONCILIATION  297 

"  'twas  no  order  of  mine,  you'll  remember.  And  don't 
you  go  and  say  that  I've  treated  you  ill !" 

"I'll  not !  Indeed,  I'll  not !"  Henrietta  cried  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  "I'll  say  you  treated  me  very  well.  And 
that  is  for  your  little  girl  to  make  up  for  her  disappoint- 
ment. She'll  be  sorry  I'm  not  going  to  be  transported," 
with  a  hint  of  laughter  in  her  voice.  "And,  Mrs.  Weigh- 
ton,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  something." 

"Well,  miss?    If  it  is  to  oblige  you?" 

"Then,  will  you,"  in  a  tone  touched  by  feeling,  "if 
you  have  some  day  another  like  me,  will  you  be  as  good 
to  her  ?  And  remember  that  she  may  not  have  done  any- 
thing wrong  after  all ?  Will  you  promise  me?" 

"I  will,  miss,"  Mrs.  Weighton  answered — very  gra- 
ciously for  her.  "But  there,  it  isn't  all  has  your  sense! 
They  takes  and  runs  their  heads  against  a  brick  wall! 
Either  they  scratches  and  screams,  or  they  sulks  and 
starves.  And  then  we've  to  manage  them,  and  we  get  the 
blame.  I  see  you  looked  white  and  shivering  when  you 
come  in,  and  I  thought  we'd  have  trouble  with  you.  But 
there,  you  kept  yourself  in  hand,  and  showed  your  sense 
— it's  breeding  does  it — and  you've  naught  to  complain 
of  in  consequence.  Wishing  you  well  and  kindly,  miss !" 

"I  shall  come  to  you  for  a  character!"  Henrietta  re- 
plied with  a  laugh. 

And  she  came  out  quickly  and  joined  Captain  Clyne, 
who,  waiting  with  his  hand  on  the  lock,  had  heard  all. 
He  saw  that  though  she  laughed  there  was  a  tear  in  her 
eye;  and  the  mingling  of  gaiety  and  sensibility  in  her 
conduct  and  her  words  was  not  lost  upon  him.  She 
seemed  to  be  bent  on  putting  him  in  the  wrong ;  on  prov- 
ing to  him  that  she  was  not  the  silly-pated  child  he  had 
deemed  her!  Even  the  praise  of  this  jailor's  wife,  a 


298  A  RECONCILIATION 

coarse,  cross-grained  woman,  sounded  reproachfully  in 
his  ears.  She  was  a  better  judge,  it  seemed,  than  he. 

He  put  Henrietta  into  the  chaise — the  brisk,  cold  air 
of  the  winter  morning  was  welcome  to  her ;  and  they  set 
off.  Gnawed  as  he  was  by  unhappy  thoughts,  wretchedly 
anxious  as  he  was,  he  was  silent  for  a  time.  He  knew 
what  he  wanted,  but  he  was  ashamed  to  clutch  at  that 
advantage  for  the  sake  of  which  Sutton  had  resigned  to 
him  the  mission.  And  for  a  long  time  he  sat  mute  and 
brooding  in  his  corner,  the  bright  reflection  of  the  snow 
adding  pallor  to  his  face.  Yet  he  had  eyes  for  her:  he 
watched  her  without  knowing  it.  And  at  the  third  mile- 
stone from  Kendal,  a  little  beyond  Barnside,  he  saw  her 
shiver. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  cold?"  he  said,  and  wondering 
at  the  role  he  played,  he  drew  the  wraps  closer  about  her 
— with  care,  however,  that  his  fingers  should  not  touch 
her. 

"No,"  she  answered  frankly.  "I  am  not  cold.  But  I 
remember  passing  that  mile-stone.  I  was  almost  sick 
with  fright  when  I  passed  it.  So  that  it  was  all  I  could 
do  not  to  try  to  get  out  and  escape." 

This  was  a  revelation  to  him ;  and  not  a  pleasant  one. 
He  winced. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said.    "I  am  very  sorry." 

"  Oh,  I  felt  better  when  I  was  once  in  the  prison,"  she 
answered  lightly.  "And  with  Mrs.  Weighton.  Before 
that  I  was  afraid  that  there  might  be  only  men." 

He  suffered,  in  the  hearing,  something  of  the  humilia- 
tion which  she  had  undergone;  was  she  not  of  his  blood 
and  his  class — and  a  woman?  But  he  could  only  say 
again  that  he  was  sorry.  He  was  sorry. 

A  little  later  he  forgot  her  in  his  own  trouble:  in 


A  RECONCILIATION  299 

thoughts  of  his  child,  thoughts  which  tortured  him  un- 
ceasingly, and  became  more  active  as  his  return  to  the 
Low  Wood  suggested  the  possibility  of  news.  At  one 
moment  he  saw  the  lad  stretched  on  a  pallet,  ill  and 
neglected,  with  no  eye  to  pity,  no  hand  to  soothe;  at 
another  he  pictured  him  in  some  dark  hiding-place  with 
fear  for  his  sole  companion.  Or  again  he  saw  him  beaten 
and  ill-treated,  shrieking  for  the  father  who  had  been 
always  to  him  as  heaven,  omniscient  and  omnipotent — 
but  shrieking  in  vain.  And  then  the  thought  that  to 
one  so  weak  and  young  a  little  added  hardship,  another 
day  of  fear,  an  insignificant  delay,  might  prove  fatal — it 
was  this  thought  that  wrung  the  heart  most  powerfully, 
and  went  far  towards  maddening  the  man. 

As  he  sat  watching  the  snow-covered  fell  slide  by  the 
chaise  window,  he  was  unconscious  how  clearly  his  mis- 
ery was  stamped  on  his  features ;  or  how  pitiful  was  the 
hunger  that  lurked  in  the  hollows  under  his  eyes.  But 
when  the  pace  slackened,  and  the  carriage  began  to  crawl 
up  the  long  hill  beyond  Broadgate,  a  faint  sound  caught 
his  ear,  and  he  remembered  where  he  was,  and  turned. 
He  saw  that  she  was  crying. 

The  same  words  came  to  his  lips. 

"I  am  sorry.  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "But  it  is 
over  now." 

"It's  not  that,"  she  sobbed.  "I  am  sorry  for  you! 
And  for  him !  The  poor  boy !  The  poor  boy !  Last 
night — no,  it  was  the  night  before- — I  thought  that  he 
called  to  me.  I  thought  that  he  was  there  in  the  room 
with  me!" 

"Don't !"  he  faltered.    "I  cannot  bear  it !    Don't !" 

But  she  did  not  heed. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated.  "And  ever  since,  ever  since  I've 


300  A  RECONCILIATION 

been  thinking  of  him !  I've  wondered,  I've  wondered  if 
I  did  right!" 

He  was  silent,  striving  to  regain  control  of  himself. 
But  at  last, 

"Eight  in  saying  nothing?"  he  asked. 

His  voice  shook  a  little,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  averted. 

"Yes.  I  didn't  know"— a  little  wildly— "I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  And  then  you  threatened  me,  and  I — 
it  seemed  unreasonable.  For  I  wanted  to  help  you,  I  did, 
I  did  indeed.  But  I  dared  not,  I  dared  not  give  him 
up !  I  could  not  have  his  blood  on  my  hands  after — you 
know." 

"But  you  no  longer — care  for  him?" 

"I  loathe  him !"  she  answered  with  a  shudder.  "But 
you  see  how  it  is.  He  trusted  me,  and  I — how  can  I 
betray  him  ?  How  can  I  ?  How  can  I  ?" 

It  was  his  business  to  prove  to  her  that  she  could,  that 
she  ought,  that  she  must;  he  was  here  to  press  her  to  it, 
to  persuade  her,  to  cajole  her  to  it,  if  necessary.  He  had 
come  for  that.  But  the  words  it  behoved  him  to  use 
stuck  in  his  throat.  And  the  chaise  rolled  on,  and  rolled 
on.  And  still,  but  with  the  sweat  standing  on  his  brow, 
he  sat  silent,  looking  out  on  the  barren  landscape,  as  the 
stone  fences  slid  quickly  by,  or  open  moorland  took  their 
place.  In  ten  minutes  they  would  be  at  the  Low  Wood. 
Already  through  her  window  she  could  see  the  long 
stretch  of  sparkling  water,  and  the  wooded  isles,  and  the 
distant  smoke  of  Ambleside. 

Their  silence  was  a  tragedy.  She  could  save  him  by  a 
word,  and  she  could  not  say  the  word.  She  dared  not 
say  it.  And  he — the  pleas  he  should  have  used  died  on 
his  lips.  It  behoved  him  to  cast  himself  on  her  mercy ; 
he  was  here  for  that  purpose.  It  behoved  him  to  work 


A  RECONCILIATION  301 

on  her  feelings,  to  plead  with  her,  to  weep,  to  pray.  And 
he  did  not,  he  could  not.  And  the  minutes  passed;  the 
wheels  rolled  and  rolled.  Soon  they  would  be  at  the  end 
of  their  journey.  He  was  like  a  famishing  man  who  sees 
a  meal  within  reach,  but  cannot  touch  it;  or  like  one 
oppressed  by  a  terrible  nightmare,  who  knows  that  he 
has  but  to  say  a  word,  and  he  is  freed  from  the  incubus — 
yet  his  tongue  refuses  its  office.  And  now  the  carriage, 
having  climbed  the  rise,  began  to  roll  more  quickly  down 
the  hill.  In  a  very  few  minutes  they  would  be  at  the  end 
of  their  journey. 

Suddenly — "What  can  we  do?"  she  cried,  piteously. 
"What  can  we  do  ?  Can  we  do  nothing?  Nothing?" 

And  neither  of  the  two  thought  the  union  of  interests 
strange;  any  more  than  in  their  absorption  they  noted 
the  strangeness  of  this  drive  in  company — over  some  of 
the  very  road  which  she  had  traversed  when  she  eloped 
with  another  to  avoid  a  marriage  with  him. 

He  shook  his  head  in  dumb  misery.  Three  days  of  sus- 
pense, and  as  many  sleepless  nights,  the  wear  and  tear 
of  many  journeys,  had  told  upon  him.  He  had  had  but 
little  rest,  and  that  induced  by  sheer  exhaustion.  He 
had  taken  his  meals  standing,  he  had  passed  many  hours 
of  each  day  in  the  saddle.  He  could  no  longer  command 
the  full  resources  of  his  mind,  and  though  he  still  held 
despair  at  arm's  length,  though  he  still  by  force  of  habit 
commanded  himself,  and  was  stern  and  reticent,  de- 
spondency gained  ground  upon  him.  It  was  she  who 
almost  at  the  last  moment  suggested  a  plan  that  if  not 
obvious,  was  simple,  and  to  the  purpose. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "Listen,  sir!  Why  should  not  I 
do  this?  Go  myself  to — to  him,  to  Walter  son?" 

"You?"  he  answered,  with  undisguised  repugnance. 


302  A  RECONCILIATION 

"Yes,  I!  I!  Why  not?"  she  asked.  "And  learn  if 
he  has  the  child,  or  knows  where  it  is.  Then  if  he  be 
innocent  of  this  last  wickedness,  as  I  believe  him  to  be 
innocent,  we  shall  learn  the  fact  without  harming  him ; 
always  supposing  that  I  go  to  him,  undetected.  And  I 
can  do  that — with  your  help !  That  must  be  your  care." 

He  pondered. 

"But  if,"  he  said  slowly, -"you  do  this  and  he  have  the 
child?  What  then?  Have  you  thought  of  the  conse- 
quences to  yourself?  If  he  be  privy  to  a  crime  which 
none  but  desperate  men  could  commit,  what  of  you  ?  He 
will  be  capable  of  harming  you.  Or  if  he  scruple,  there 
will  be  others,  the  men  who  took  my  child,  who  will  stick 
at  nothing  to  keep  their  necks  out  of  the  noose,  and  to 
remove  a  witness  who  else  might  hang  them." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said  firmly. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  said.  "God  bless  you!  But  I 
am." 

"What?"  she  cried,  and  she  turned  to  him,  honestly 
astonished.  "You?  You  dissuade  me  when  it  is  your 
child  that  is  in  peril  ?" 

"Be  silent!"  he  said  harshly.  "Be  silent!  For  your 
own  sake,  if  not  for  mine !  Why  do  you  tempt  me  ? 
Why  do  you  torture  me  ?  Do  you  think,  Henrietta,  that 
I  have  not  enough  to  tempt  me  without  your  help  ?  No, 
no,"  more  quietly,  "I  have  done  you  wrong  already!  I 
know  not  how  I  can  make  amends.  But  at  least  I  will 
not  add  to  the  wrong." 

"I  only  ask  you  to  leave  me  to  myself,"  she  said  hard- 
ily. "The  rest  I  will  do,  if  I  am  not  watched." 

"The  rest!"  he  said  with  a  groan.  "But  what  a  rest 
it  is!  Why  should  these  men  spare  you  if  you  go  to 
them  ?  They  did  not  spare  my  boy !" 


A  RECONCILIATION  303 

"They  took  the  boy,"  she  answered,  "to  punish  you. 
They  will  not  have  the  same  motive  for  harming  me.  I 
mean — they  will  not  harm  me  with  the  idea  of  hurting 
you." 


"Ay,  but " 

"They  will  know  that  it  will  not  affect  you." 

He  did  not  deny  the  statement,  but  for  some  time  he 
drummed  on  the  window  with  his  fingers. 

"That  may  be,"  he  said  at  length.  "Yet  I'll  not  do 
it !  And  I'll  not  let  you  do  it.  Instead,  do  you  tell  me 
where  the  man  is  and  I  will  go  to  him  myself.  And  I 
will  tell  no  tales." 

"You  will  keep  his  secret?" 

"I  will." 

"But  I  will  not  do  that!"  she  answered.  And  she 
laughed  gaily  in  the  reaction  of  her  spirits.  She  knew 
in  some  subtle  way  that  she  was  reinstated;  that  he 
would  never  think  very  badly  of  her  again.  And  the 
knowledge  that  he  trusted  her  was  joy ;  she  scarcely  knew 
why.  But,  "I  shall  not  do  that!"  she  repeated.  "Have 
you  thought  what  will  be  the  consequence  to  you  if  he  be 
guilty  ?  They  will  be  three  to  one,  and  they  will  murder 
you." 

"And  you  think  that  I  can  let  you  run  the  risk?" 

"There  will  be  no  risk  for  me.    I  am  different." 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  he  said.  "I  wish" — despairingly 
— "I  wish  to  God  I  could  believe  it!" 

"Then  do  believe  it,"  she  said. 

"I  cannot !    I  cannot !" 

"You  have  his  letter,"  she  replied.  And  she  was  going 
to  say  more,  she  was  going  to  prove  that  she  could  under- 
take the  matter  with  safety,  when  the  chaise  began  to 
slacken  speed,  and  she  cut  her  reasoning  short.  "You 


304  A  RECONCILIATION 

will  let  me  do  it?"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
sleeve. 

"No,  no!" 

"You  have  only  to  draw  them  off." 

"I  shall  not!"  he  cried,  almost  savagely.  "I  shall 
not !  Do  you  think  I  am  a  villain  ?  Do  you  think  I  care 
nothing  what  happens " 

The  jerk  caused  by  the  chaise  coming  to  a  stand  before 
the  inn  cut  his  words  short.  Clyne  thrust  out  his  head. 

"Any  news?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "Has  anything  been 
heard  ?" 

Mr.  Sutton,  who  had  been  on  the  watch  for  their  ar- 
rival, came  forward  to  the  chaise  door.  He  answered 
Clyne,  but  his  eyes,  looking  beyond  his  patron,  sought 
Henrietta's  in  modest  deprecation;  much  as  the  dog 
which  is  not  assured  of  its  reception  seeks,  yet  deprecates 
its  master's  glance. 

"No,"  he  said,  "none.  I  am  sony  for  it.  Nadin  has 
not  yet  returned,  nor  Bishop,  though  we  are  expecting 
both." 

"Where's  Bishop?" 

"  He  has  gone  with  a  party  to  Lady  Holm.  There's  an 
idea  that  the  isles  were  not  thoroughly  searched  in  the 
first  place.  But  he  should  be  back  immediately." 

A  slight  hardening  of  the  lines  of  the  mouth  was 
dyne's  only  answer.  He  helped  Henrietta  to  alight,  and 
was  turning  with  her  to  enter  the  house,  when  he  re- 
membered himself.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the  chaplain's 
arm. 

"This  is  the  gentleman,"  he  said,  "whom  you  have  to 
thank  for  your  release,  Henrietta." 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  greatly  obliged  to 
him."  But  her  tone  was  cold. 


A  RECONCILIATION  305 

"He  did  everything,"  Clyne  said.  "He  left  no  stone 
unturned.  Let  me  do  him  the  justice  of  saying  that  we 
two  must  share  the  blame  of  what  has  happened,  while 
the  whole  credit  is  his." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him,"  she  said  again. 
And  she  bowed. 

And  that  was  all.  That,  and  a  look  which  told  him 
that  she  resented  his  interference,  that  she  hated  to  be 
beholden  to  him,  that  she  held  him  linked  for  ever  with 
her  humiliation.  He,  and  he  alone,  had  stood  by  her 
two  days  before,  when  all  had  been  against  her,  and  Cap- 
tain Clyne  had  been  as  flint  to  her.  He,  and  he  alone, 
had  wrought  out  her  deliverance  and  reinstated  her. 
And  her  thanks  were  a  haughty  movement  of  the  head, 
two  sentences  as  cold  as  the  wintry  day,  a  smile  as  hard 
as  the  icicles  that  still  depended  in  the  shade  of  the 
eaves.  And  when  she  had  spoken,  she  walked  to  the 
door  without  another  glance — and  every  step  was  on  the 
poor  man's  heart. 

Mrs.  Gilson  had  come  down  two  steps  to  meet  her.  She 
had  seen  all. 

"Well,  you're  soon  back,  miss?"  she  said.  "Some 
have  the  luck  all  one  way." 

"That  cannot  be  said  of  me!"  Henrietta  retorted, 
smiling. 

But  her  colour  was  high.  She  remembered  how  she 
had  descended  those  steps. 

"No?"  Mrs.  Gilson  responded.  "When  you  bring  the 
bad  on  yourself  and  the  good  is  just  a  gift?" 

"A  gift?" 

"Ay !  And  one  for  which  you're  not  over  grateful !" 
with  all  her  wonted  grimness.  "But  that's  the  way  of 
the  world!  Grand  as  you  will,  miss,  it's  the  lower 


306  A  RECONCILIATION 

mill-stone  suffers,  and  the  upper  that  cries  out! 
Still » 

Mr.  Sutton  heard  no  more ;  for  Henrietta  had  passed 
with  the  landlady  into  the  house;  and  he  turned  himself 
about  with  a  full  heart  and  walked  away.  He  had  done 
so  much  for  her!  He  had  risked  his  livelihood,  his 
patron,  his  position,  to  save  her!  He  had  paced  this 
strand  with  every  fibre  in  him  tingling  with  pity  for 
her !  Ay,  and  when  all  others  had  put  her  out  of  their 
thoughts !  And  for  return,  she  went  laughing  into  the 
house  and  paid  no  heed  to  him — to  the  poor  parson. 

True,  he  had  expected  little.  But  he  had  expected 
more  than  this.  He  had  not  hoped  for  much;  or  it  is 
possible  that  he  had  not  resigned  the  opportunity  of 
bringing  her  back.  But  he  had  hoped  for  more  than  this 
— for  the  tearful  thanks  of  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  for  the 
clasp  of  a  grateful  hand,  for  a  word  or  two  that  might 
remain  in  his  memory  always. 

And  bitterness  welled  up  in  his  heart,  and  at  the  first 
gate,  at  which  he  could  stand  unseen,  he  let  his  face  fall 
on  his  hands.  He  cursed  the  barriers  of  caste,  the  cold 
pride  of  these  aristocrats,  even  his  own  pallid  insignifi- 
cance— since  he  had  as  hungry  a  heart  as  panted  in 
the  breast  of  the  handsomest  dandy.  He  could  not  hate 
her;  she  was  young  and  thoughtless,  and  in  spite  of 
himself  his  heart  made  excuses  for  her.  But  he  hated 
the  world,  and  the  system,  and  the  miserable  conventions 
that  shackled  him;  ay,  hated  them  as  bitterly  for  the 
time  as  the  dark-faced  gipsy  girl  whose  eyes  he  found 
upon  him,  when  at  last  a  step  caused  him  to  look  up. 

She  grinned  at  him  slyly,  and  he  gave  back  the  look 
with  resentment.  He  had  met  her  once  or  twice  in  the 
lanes  and  about  the  inn,  and  marked  her  for  a  rustic 


A  RECONCILIATION  307 

beauty  of  a  savage  type.  Now  he  waited  frowning  for 
her  to  pass.  But  she  only  smiled  more  insolently,  and 
lifting  her  voice,  sang : 

"But  still  she  replied,  sir, 

I  pray  let  me  be ! 
If  ever  I  love  a  man, 
The  master  for  me !" 

A  dull  flush  overspread  his  face.    "Go  your  way !"  he 
said. 

"Ay,  I'll  go!"  Bess  replied.    "And  so  will  she!" 

In  pin,  out  trout ! 

Three's  a  meal  and  one's  nought! 

"One's  nought !  One's  nought !"  she  continued  to  carol. 
And  laughing  ironically,  she  went  up  the  road — not 
without  looking  back  once  or  twice  to  enjoy  a  surprise 
which  was  only  exceeded  by  the  chaplain's  wrath.  What 
did  the  girl  know  ?  And  what  was  it  to  her  ?  A  common 
gipsy  drab  such  as  she,  how  did  she  come  to  guess  these 
things?  And  where  the  joint  lay  at  which  to  aim  the 
keen  shafts  of  her  wit  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BISHOP   CAUGHT   NAPPING 

"I  WILL  not  do  it !  I  will  not  do  it !"  Those  had  heen 
Clyne's  last  words  on  the  subject;  uttered  and  repeated 
with  a  heat  which  proved  that,  in  coming  to  this  de- 
cision, he  fought  against  his  own  heart  as  much  as 
against  her  arguments.  "  I  will  not  do  it !  But  do  you," 
with  something  of  his  former  violence,  "tell  me  where  he 
is  !  Tell  me  at  once,  and  I  will  go  and  question  him." 

"And  I,"  she  had  answered  with  spirit,  "will  not  tell 
you." 

At  that  he  had  looked  at  her  with  the  old  sternness, 
but  her  eyes  had  no  longer  fallen  before  his.  And  then 
he  had  been  called  away  to  follow  one  of  the  hasty  clues, 
the  wild-goose  scents  which  were  reported  from  hour  to 
hour — by  pedlars  coming  in  from  the  dales,  or  by  hazy 
parish  constables  who  took  every  stranger  for  a  rogue. 
Twice  he  had  turned  in  his  saddle,  twice  reined  in  his 
horse,  before  he  passed  out  of  sight ;  and  she  had  known 
that  he  wrestled  with  himself,  that  he  was  near,  very 
near,  to  giving  way,  and  sacrificing  her  upon  the  altar  of 
his  child.  But  he  had  gone  on,  and  not  returned.  And 
though  it  had  grieved  her  to  see  how  drawn  and  haggard 
was  his  face,  how  near  to  failing  the  wiry  strength  of  his 
frame,  she  had  rejoiced  on  her  own  account.  He  might 
say  what  he  liked,  forbid  as  he  chose,  it  would  go  hard 
with  her  if  she  could  not  find  the  opportunity  she  needed, 

308 


BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING  3Q9 

if  she,  who  had  suffered  all  along  and  in  the  esteem  of 
all,  did  not  make  use  of  the  means  of  clearing  herself 
that  remained  to  her. 

Courage  at  least  should  not  be  wanting ;  and  she  would 
be  cunning,  too.  Already  she  dreamed  of  a  happy  return 
with  the  child ;  and  her  cheeks  grew  warm  and  her  eyes 
soft  as  she  conjured  up  the  scene,  and  imagined  herself 
leading  the  boy  to  his  father  and  receiving  his  thanks. 
Then  he  would  confess — more  fully  than  he  had  yet  con- 
fessed— how  he  had  wronged  her,  how  far  from  her 
thoughts  had  been  harm  to  the  boy.  And  she — ah,  but 
she  must  first  do  her  part.  She  must  first  do  that  which 
she  had  to  do. 

So  she  went  craftily  about  her  task,  counting  up  those 
whom  she  had  to  fear  and  ticking  them  off.  Before 
Clyne  had  left  the  house  a  mile  behind  him  she  had 
learned  where  Nadin  was,  and  a  second  officer  whom  she 
suspected  of  watching  her  movements.  They  were  abroad 
and  she  had  naught  to  fear  from  them.  There  remained 
Mr.  Sutton  and  Bishop.  For  the  former,  "Horrid  man !" 
she  thought  in  her  ingratitude,  "I  suppose  he  will  look 
to  be  thanked  every  time  I  see  him  !"  And  she  was  con- 
firmed in  this,  when  she  marked  him  down.  He  was 
walking  to  and  fro  before  the  door. 

"I  must  go  out  at  the  back !"  she  concluded.   • 

But  there  still  remained  the  bluff  but  civil  Bishop. 
She  had  little  doubt  that  he  was  the  Cerberus  left  to 
guard  her.  And  no  doubt  at  all  when  she  learned  from 
Modest  Ann  that  he  was  taking  his  early  dinner  in  the 
coffee-room  with  the  door  wide  open. 

"Waiting  to  see  if  I  go  out,"  she  said. 

"Well,  miss,"  Ann  answered,  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
he  was !" 


310  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 

Henrietta  looked  at  her  very  kindly. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  asked  slowly,  "that  you  could 
somehow  get  rid  of  him,  Ann  ?" 

The  woman  looked  as  much  troubled  as  one  of  her 
hard  features  could  look. 

"No,  miss,  I  don't  think  I  could,"  she  said. 

"You  are  afraid?"  gently. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  him,"  with  some  asperity.  "Bless 
the  man,  no !  I'm  not  afraid  of  no  man  nowhere !  But 
I  am  afraid  of  the  missus  ?" 

"Ah!  And  you  don't  think  that  you  could  tell  him 
that  I  wish  to  see  him  upstairs?  And  then  when  he 
comes  up  and  finds  the  room  empty — that  I  shall  be 
down  from  my  bedroom  in  five  minutes  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  true." 

"No,"  softly.    "Perhaps  not." 

Modest  Ann  looked  dreadfully  perplexed. 

"You'll  get  me  into  trouble,  miss,"  she  said.  "I  know 
you  will." 

"Then  I'll  get  you  out  again,"  the  fair  tempter  re- 
torted. "I  will  indeed,  Ann." 

"But  if  you  get  into  trouble  yourself,  miss?  What 
then  ?" 

Henrietta  turned  with  the  air  of  a  martyr  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out. 

"I  thought  you  liked  me  a  little,"  she  murmured  pres- 
ently, and  dried  a  tear  that  was  not  there.  "I  thought 
you  would  do  a  small  thing  for  me." 

The  woman  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  softly. 

"I  will,  miss,  drat  me  if  I  don't!"  she  said. 
"I'll  do  what  you  wish,  come  what  may  of  it!  So 
there." 

Henrietta  turned  to  her,  her  face  in  a  glow.     "You 


BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING  311 

dear,  kind  thing!"  she  cried,  "I'll  never  forget  it.  You 
are  the  only  one  who  is  not  against  me." 

Ann  shook  her  head. 

"I  hope  I'll  not  be  the  one  to  repent  it!"  she  mut- 
tered, with  a  last  spark  of  doubt. 

"Indeed,  indeed  you  won't!  But  now" — naively — 
"shall  I  lock  him  in  or  not?" 

"In  the  room?" 

"Yes." 

"Here,  miss  ?    Why,  miss,  he'd  rouse  the  house !" 

"Not  if  we  tied  up  the  bell-pull  first!"  she  sug- 
gested. 

But  Modest  Ann  was  aghast  at  the  thought.  "Lord, 
miss,  he'd  only  have  to  open  the  window  and  shout! 
And  there's  the  parson  walking  up  and  down  the  road, 
and  the  fat'd  be  in  the  fire  in  two  twos !" 

"So  it  would,"  Henrietta  admitted  reluctantly.  "I 
see.  So  you  must  just  entice  him  here,  and  say  I'll  be 
down  from  my  bedroom  in  three  minutes.  And  I  hope 
he'll  be  patient.  As  for  you,  you'll  know  no  more  than 
that  I  asked  you  to  fetch  him,  and  said  I  should  be  with 
him  at  once." 

"Well,  they  can't  touch  me  for  that,"  Modest  Ann 
said;  and  she  agreed,  but  with  hesitation.  "I  don't 
think  he'll  be  so  simple,"  she  said.  "That's  a  fact. 
He'll  not  come  up." 

But  he  did.  He  walked  straight  into  the  trap,  and 
Henrietta,  who  was  waiting  in  ambush  in  the  dark  pas- 
sage while  he  passed,  sped  downstairs,  and  would  have 
escaped  by  the  back  door  without  meeting  a  soul,  if  Mrs. 
Gilson  had  not  by  bad  luck  been  crossing  the  yard.  The 
landlady  caught  sight  of  the  girl,  and  raising  her  voice 
cried  to  her  to  stop.  For  an  instant  Henrietta  hesitated. 


312  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 

Then  she  thought  it  prudent  to  comply.     She  returned 
slowly. 

"Come,  come,  miss,  this  won't  do  I"  the  landlady  said 
tartly.  "You're  not  going  off  like  that  all  of  a  hurry! 
You  bide  a  bit  and  consider  who's  bail  for  you." 

"Not  you!"  Henrietta  retorted  mutinously.  And  as 
this  was  true,  for  the  Gilsons'  bail  had  been  discharged, 
the  first  hit  was  hers. 

"Oh,  so  you're  saucy  now,  miss!"  the  landlady  re- 
torted. "Brag's  the  dog,  is  it?" 

"No,  but " 

"It's  so,  it  seems!  Any  way,  you'll  please  to  tell  me, 
young  lady,  where  you  are  going  in  such  a  hurry." 

But  Henrietta  was  at  bay.  She  knew  that  if  she  were 
delayed  even  two  minutes  her  chance  was  gone;  for 
Bishop  would  be  on  her  heels.  So,  "That's  my  busi- 
ness !"  she  answered.  And  determined  to  escape,  even  by 
force,  she  turned  about,  light  as  a  roe,  tossed  her 
head  defiantly,  and  was  off  through  the  gate  in  a  twink- 
ling. 

Mrs.  Gilson  was  left  gaping.  She  was  not  of  a  figure 
to  take  up  the  chase,  for  like  many  good  housewives  of 
her  time,  she  seldom  left  her  own  premises  except  to  go 
to  church.  But  she  was  none  the  less  certain  that  Hen- 
rietta ought  to  be  followed.  "There's  a  fine  trollop!" 
she  cried.  "It  won't  be  long  before  she  runs  her  head 
into  harm !  Where's  that  blockhead,  Bishop  ?"  And  she 
bundled  away  to  the  coffee-room  to  tell  him  that  the  girl 
was  gone. 

She  arrived  scant  of  breath — and  he  was  not  there. 
The  coffee-room  was  empty,  and  the  landlady,  knowing 
that  he  had  stayed  in  the  house  on  purpose  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Henrietta's  movements,  swept  out  again,  fuming. 


BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING  313 

In  the  passage  she  caught  sight  of  Modest  Ann  and 
called  her.  "Where's  that  man,  Bishop?"  she  asked. 

Ann  stared  as  if  she  had  never  heard  the  name. 

"Bishop?"  she  repeated  stolidly. 

"What  else  did  I  say?" 

"He's  with  the  young  lady." 

"He's  nothing  of  the  kind !"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted,  her 
temper  rising. 

"Well,  he  went  to  her,"  Ann  returned.  "He 
went " 

But  Mrs.  Gilson  did  not  stay  to  hear.  She  had  caught 
sight  of  Mr.  Sutton  walking  past  the  open  door,  and 
aware  that  a  second  now  was  worth  a  minute  by  and  by, 
she  hurried  out  to  him.  "Your  reverence!  Here!" 
she  cried.  And  when  he  turned  surprised  by  the  ad- 
dress, "The  young  lady's  gone !"  she  continued.  "Slipped 
out  at  the  back,  and  she'll  be  God  knows  where  in  two 
minutes !  Do  you  follow,  sir,  and  keep  her  in  sight  or 
there's  no  knowing  what  may  happen !"  And  she  pointed 
through  the  house  to  indicate  the  nearest  way. 

Mr.  Sutton's  face  turned  a  dull  red.  But  he  did  not 
move,  nor  make  any  show  of  acting  on  the  suggestion. 
Instead,  "Miss  Darner  has  gone  out?"  he  said  slowly. 

"To  be  sure!"  the  landlady  cried,  in  a  fume  at  the 
delay.  "And  if  she  is  not  followed  at  once " 

"Where's  the  officer?"  he  asked,  interrupting  her. 

"Heaven  knows,  or  I  should  not  come  to  you!"  Mrs. 
Gilson  retorted.  "Do  you  go  after  her  before  she's  be- 
yond catching!" 

But  Mr.  Sutton  shook  his  head  with  an  obstinate  look. 
"No,"  he  said.  "It's  not  my  business,  ma'am.  I'd  like 
to  oblige  you  after  your  kindness  yesterday,  but  I've 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  interfere  with  the  young  lady. 


314  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 

I  followed  her  once,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  tone  and 
with  a  conscious  air — "and  I've  repented  it!" 

"You'll  repent  it  a  deal  more  if  you  don't  follow  her 
now!"  the  landlady  retorted.  She  was  in  a  towering 
passion  by  this  time.  "You'll  repent  it  finely  if  any- 
thing happens  to  her.  That  you  will,  my  man !  Don't 
you  know  that  Captain  Clyne  left  word  that  she  wasn't 
to  be  let  go  out  alone  ?  Then  go,  man,  after  her,  before 
it  is  too  late.  And  don't  be  a  sawny !" 

"I  shall  not,"  he  answered  firmly. 

She  saw  then  that  he  was  not  to  be  moved ;  and  with  a 
half-smothered  word,  not  of  the  politest,  she  turned  short 
about  to  find  Bishop ;  though  she  was  well  aware  that  so 
much  time  had  been  wasted  that  the  thing  was  now 
desperate.  Again  she  asked  Ann,  who  had  been  listening 
to  the  colloquy,  where  Bishop  was. 

"  He  went  up  to  the  young  lady,"  Ann  answered. 

"He  did  not,  I  tell  you.    For  she  is  not  up  but  out !" 

"Perhaps  he  has  followed  her." 

"Perhaps  you're  a  liar!"  Mrs.  Gilson  cried.  And  ad- 
vancing on  Ann  with  a  threatening  gesture,  "If  you 
don't  tell  me  where  he  is,  I'll  shake  you,  woman !  Do 
you  hear?" 

Ann  hesitated ;  when  who  should  appear  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  but  Bishop  himself,  looking  foolish. 

"Where's  the  young  lady?"  he  asked. 
'"Where's  your  wits?"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted.     "She's 
out  by  the  back-door  this  five  minutes.    If  you  want  to 
catch  her  you'd  best  be  quick !"    And  as  with  a  face  of 
consternation  he  hurried  through  the  house,  "  She  didn't 
turn  Ambleside  way !"  she  called  after  him.    "That's  all 
I  know!" 
,  This  was  something,  but  it  left,  as  Bishop  knew,  two 


BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING  315 

roads  open.  For,  besides  the  field-path  which  led  up  the 
hill  and  through  the  wood,  and  so  over  the  shoulder  to 
Troutbeck,  a  farm  lane  turned  short  to  the  right  behind 
the  out-buildings,  and  ran  into  the  lower  road  towards 
Calgarth  and  Bowness.  Which  had  the  girl  taken? 
Bishop  paused  in  doubt,  and  gazed  either  way.  She  was 
not  to  be  seen  on  the  slope  leading  up  to  the  wood ;  but 
then,  she  was  not  to  be  seen  on  the  other  path.  Still,  he 
espied  something  there  which  gave  him  hope.  On  the 
hillside  the  snow  had  melted,  but  here  and  there  on  the 
north  side  of  a  wall,  or  in  a  sheltered  spot,  it  lay ;  and  a 
little  way  along  the  farm-road  was  such  a  patch  extend- 
ing across  its  width.  Bishop  hastened  to  the  place,  and  a 
glance  told  him  that  the  girl  had  not  gone  that  way. 
With  rising  hopes  he  set  off  up  the  hill. 

He  was  stout  and  short-winded,  more  at  home  in 
Cornhill  than  on  real  hills,  and  he  did  not  expect  to  gain 
upon  her.  But  he  felt  sure  that  he  should  find  her  track : 
and  its  direction  where  the  fells  were  so  sparsely  peopled 
must  tell  him  much.  He  remembered  that  it  was  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  wood  that  he  had  surprised  her  on  the 
occasion  when  her  agitation  had  led  him  to  question  her. 
He  resolved  to  make  as  quickly  as  possible  for  that  point. 

True  enough,  where  the  path  entered  the  wood  he 
came  upon  her  footsteps  imprinted  in  the  snow ;  and  he 
pushed  on,  through  the  covert  to  the  upper  end.  Here, 
just  within  the  wicket  which  opened  on  the  road,  lay 
some  drifted  snow;  and  as  much  to  recover  his  breath, 
as  because  he  thought  it  needful,  he  stopped  to  note  the 
direction  of  her  footprints.  Alas,  the  snow  bore  no  trace 
of  feet !  No  one,  it  was  clear,  had  passed  through  the 
gate  that  day. 

This  was  a  check,  and  he  turned  his  back  on  the  road, 


316  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 

and  mopped  his  forehead  with  a  handkerchief  which  he 
took  from  his  hat.  He  gazed,  nonplussed,  into  the  re- 
cesses of  the  wood  through  which  he  had  passed.  The 
undergrowth,  which  was  of  oak — with  here  and  there  a 
clump  of  hollies — still  carried  a  screen  of  brown  leaves, 
doomed  to  fall  with  the  spring,  but  sufficient  in  the  pres- 
ent to  mask  a  fugitive.  Moreover,  in  the  damp  bottom, 
where  the  bridge  spanned  the  rivulet,  a  company  might 
have  lain  hidden;  and  above  him,  where  the  wood 
climbed  the  shoulder,  there  were  knolls  and  dells,  and 
unprobed  depths  of  yellow  bracken,  that  defied  the  eye. 
Between  him  and  this  background  the  brown  trunks 
stood  at  intervals,  shot  with  the  gold  of  the  declining 
sun,  or  backed  by  a  cold  patch  of  snow:  and  the  scene 
had  been  beautiful,  in  its  russet  livery  of  autumn 
blended  with  winter,  if  he  had  had  eyes  for  it,  or  for 
aught  but  the  lurking  figure  he  hoped  to  detect. 

That  figure,  however,  he  could  not  see.  And  again  he 
stooped,  and  inspected  the  snow  beside  the  gate.  No,  she 
had  not  passed,  that  was  certain;  and  baffled,  and  in  a 
most  unhappy  mood,  he  raised  himself  and  listened. 
Above  him  a  squirrel,  scared  by  his  approach,  was  angrily 
clawing  a  branch;  a  robin,  drawn  by  the  presence  of  a 
man,  alighted  near  him,  and  hopped  nearer.  But  no 
rustle  of  flying  skirts,  no  sound  of  snapping  twigs  or 
falling  stones  came  to  him.  And,  a  city  man  by  train- 
ing, and  much  at  a  loss  here,  he  mopped  his  brow  and 
swore.  Every  second  was  precious,  and  he  was  losing 
minutes.  He  was  losing  minutes,  and  learning  nothing ! 

Was  she  hiding  in  the  wood  pending  his  departure? 
Or  had  she  doubled  back  the  way  she  had  come,  and  so 
escaped,  laughing  and  contemptuous  ?  Or  had  she  passed 
out  by  some  gate  unknown  to  him?  Or  climbed  the 


BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING  317 

fence  ?  Or  was  she  even  now  meeting  her  man  in  some 
hiding-place  among  the  hollies,  or  in  some  fern-clad 
retreat  out  of  sight  and  hearing? 

Bishop  could  not  tell.  He  was  wholly  at  a  loss.  For  a 
few  seconds  he  entertained  the  wild  notion  of  beating, 
the  wood  for  her;  but  he  had  not  taken  a  dozen  steps 
before  he  set  it  aside,  and  went  back  to  the  gate.  Henri- 
etta on  the  occasion  when  her  bearing  had  confirmed  his 
suspicions  had  descended  the  road  to  the  wood.  He 
would  go  up  the  road.  And  even  as  he  thought  of  this, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  the  gate  to  open  it,  he  heard  a  foot- 
step coming  heavily  down  the  road. 

He  went  to  meet  the  man ;  a  tall,  grinning  rustic,  who 
bore  a  sheep  on  his  shoulders  with  its  fore  and  hind  feet 
in  either  hand,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  gigantic  ruff.  At 
a  sign  from  the  officer  he  stopped,  but  did  not  lower  his 
burden. 

"Meet  anybody  as  you  came  down  the  road,  my  lad?" 
Bishop  asked. 

"Noa,"  the  man  drawled. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?    Troutbeck?" 

"Ay." 

"You  haven't  met  a  young  lady?" 

"Noa!  Met  no  soul,  master!"  the  man  answered,  in 
the  accent  not  only  of  Westmoreland,  but  of  truth. 

"Not  even  a  pretty  girl?" 

The  man  grinned  more  widely. 

"Noa,  not  nobody,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  on  down  the  road,  but  twice  looked  back, 
turning  sheep  and  all,  to  see  what  the  stranger  would 
be  at. 

Bishop  stood  for  a  few  moments  pondering  the  ques- 
tion, and  then  he  followed  the  man. 


318  BISHOP  CAUGHT  NAPPING 

"If  she  is  not  up  the  road,"  he  argued,  "it  is  ten  to 
one  that  she  started  up  the  hill  to  throw  us  off  the  scent. 
And  she's  slipped  down  herself  towards  Calgarth.  It's 
that  way,  too,  she  went  to  meet  him  at  night." 

And  gradually  quickening  his  steps  as  the  case  seemed 
clearer  and  his  hopes  grew  stronger  he  was  soon  out  of 
sight. 


THE  GOLDEN  SHIP 

Two  minutes  after  Bishop  had  passed  from  sight, 
Henrietta  rose  from  a  dip  in  the  fern ;  in  which  she  had 
lain  all  the  time,  as  snugly  hidden,  though  within  eye- 
shot of  him,  as  a  hare  in  its  form.  She  cast  a  wary 
glance  round.  Then  she  hastened  to  the  gate,  but  did 
not  pass  through  it.  She  knew  too  much.  She  chose  a 
weak  place  in  the  fence,  scaled  it  with  care,  and  sprang 
lightly  into  the  road.  She  glanced  up  and  down,  but  no 
one  was  in  sight,  and  pleased  with  her  cleverness,  she 
set  off  at  a  quick  pace  up  the  hill. 

The  sun  lacked  an  hour  of  setting.  She  might  count 
on  two  hours  of  daylight,  and  her  spirits  rose.  As  the 
emerald  green  of  the  lower  hills  shone  the  brighter  for 
the  patches  of  snow,  harbingers  of  winter,  which  flecked 
them,  so  her  spirits  rose  the  higher  for  troubles  over- 
past or  to  come.  She  felt  no  fear,  no  despondency,  none 
of  the  tremours  with  which  she  had  entered  on  her  night 
adventure.  A  gaiety  of  which  she  did  not  ask  herself 
the  cause,  a  heart  as  light  as  her  feet  and  as  blithe  as  the 
black-bird's  note,  carried  her  on.  She  who  had  awakened 
that  morning  in  a  prison  could  have  sung  and  caroled 
as  she  walked.  The  beauty  of  the  hills  about  her,  of  the 
lake  below  her,  blue  here,  there  black,  filled  her  with 
happiness. 

And  the  cause  ?  She  did  not  seek  for  the  cause.  Cer- 
tainly she  did  not  find  it.  It  was  enough  for  the  mo- 

319 


320  THE   GOLDEN   SHIP 

ment  that  she  had  been  prisoned  and  was  free ;  and  that 
in  an  hour,  or  two  hours  at  most,  she  would  return  with 
the  child  or  with  news.  And  then,  the  sweet  vengeance 
of  laying  it  in  its  father's  arms !  She  whom  he  had  in- 
sulted, whom  he  had  mishandled,  whom  he  had  treated 
so  remorselessly — it  would  be  from  her  hand  that  he 
would  receive  his  treasure,  the  child  whom  he  had  told 
her  that  she  hated.  He  would  have  some  cause  then  to 
talk  of  making  amends !  And  need  to  go  about  and 
about  before  he  found  a  way  to  be  quits  with  her ! 

She  did  not  analyse  beyond  that  point  the  feeling  of 
gaiety  and  joyous  anticipation  which  possessed  her.  She 
would  put  him  in  the  wrong.  She  would  heap  coals  of 
fire  on  his  head.  That  sufficed.  If  there  welled  up 
within  her  heart  another  thought,  if  since  morning  she 
had  a  feeling  and  a  hope  that  thrilled  her  and  lent  to  all 
the  world  this  smiling  guise,  she  was  conscious  of  the 
effect,  unconscious  of  the  cause.  The  wrist  which  Clyne 
had  twisted  was  still  black  and  blue  and  tender  to  the 
touch.  She  blushed  lest  any  eye  fall  on  it,  or  any  guess 
how  he  had  treated  her.  But — she  blushed  also,  when 
she  was  alone,  and  her  own  eyes  dwelt  on  it.  And  dwell 
on  it  sometimes  they  would;  for,  strange  to  say,  the 
feeling  of  shame,  if  it  was  shame,  was  not  unpleasant. 

She  met  no  one.  She  reached  the  gate  of  Starvecrow 
Farm,  unseen  as  she  believed.  But  heedful  of  the  old 
saying,  that  fields  have  eyes  and  woods  have  ears,  she 
looked  carefully  round  her  before  she  laid  her  hand  on 
the  gate.  Then,  in  a  twinkling,  she  was  round  the  house 
like  a  lapwing  and  tapping  at  the  door. 

To  her  first  summons  she  got  no  answer.  And  effacing 
herself  as  much  as  possible,  she  cast  a  wary  eye  over  the 
place.  The  garden  was  as  ragged  and  desolate,  the  house 


THE   GOLDEN   SHIP  321 

as  bald  and  forbidding,  the  firs  about  it  as  gloomy,  as 
when  she  had  last  seen  them.  But  the  view  over  sloping 
field  and  green  meadow,  wooded  knoll  and  shining  lake, 
made  up  for  all.  And  her  only  feeling  as  she  tapped 
again  and  more  loudly  was  one  of  impatience.  Even  the 
memory  of  the  squalid  old  man  whom  she  had  once  seen 
there  did  not  avail  to  alarm  her  in  her  buoyant  mood. 

This  was  well,  perhaps.    For  when  she  knocked  a  third 

time,  in  alarm  lest  the  person  she  sought  should  be  gone, 

„  --and  her  golden  ship  with  him,  it  was  that  very  old  man 

*"       who  opened  the  door.  And,  not  unnaturally,  it  seemed  to 

Henrietta  that  with  its  opening  a  shadow  fell  across  the 

landscape  and  blurred  the  sunshine  of  the  day.     The 

ape-like  creature  who  gaped  at  her,  the  cavern-like  room 

behind  him,  the  breath  of  the  close  air  that  came  from 

him,  inspired  disgust,  if  not  alarm,  and  checked  the  girl 

in  the  full  current  of  content. 

He  did  not  speak.  But  he  moved  his  toothless  gums 
unpleasantly,  and  danced  up  and  down  in  an  odd  fashion 
from  his  knees,  without  moving  his  feet.  Meanwhile  his 
reddened  eyes  thrust  near  to  hers  gleamed  with  sus- 
picion. On  her  side  Henrietta  was  taken  aback  by  his 
appearance,  and  for  some  moments  she  stared  at  him  in 
consternation.  What  could  she  expect  from  such  a  crea- 
ture? 

At  length,  "I  wish  to  see  Walterson,"  she  said;  in  a 
low  tone — there  might  be  listeners  in  the  house.  "Do 
you  -understand?  Do  you  understand?'*  she  repeated 
more  loudly. 

He  set  his  head,  which  was  bald  in  patches,  on  one 
side ;  as  if  to  indicate  that  he  was  deaf.  And  with  his 
eyes  on  hers,  he  dropped  his  lower  jaw  and  waited  for 
her  to  repeat  what  she  had  said. 


322  THE  GOLDEN  SHIP 

She  saw  nothing  else  for  it,  and  she  crushed  down  her 
repugnance. 

"Let  me  come  in,"  she  said.  "Do  you  hear?  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  Let  me  come  in." 

To  remain  where  she  was,  talking  secrets  to  a  deaf 
man,  was  to  invite  discovery. 

He  understood  her  this  time,  and  grudgingly  he 
opened  the  door  a  little  wider.  He  stood  aside  and  Henri- 
etta entered.  In  the  act  she  cast  a  backward  look  over  her 
shoulder,  and  caught  through  the  doorway  a  last  pros- 
pect of  the  hills  and  the  mid-lake  and  the  green  islets 
off  Bowness — set  like  jewels  on  its  gleaming  breast — all 
clear-cut  in  the  brisk  winter  air.  She  felt  the  beauty  of 
the  scene,  but  she  did  not  guess  what  things  were  to 
happen  to  her  before  she  looked  again  upon  its  fellow. 

Not  that  when  the  door  was  shut  upon  her,  the  room 
in  which  she  found  herself  did  not  something  appal  her. 
The  fire  had  been  allowed  to  sink  low,  and  the  squalor 
and  the  chill,  vapid  air  of  the  place  wrapped  her  about. 
But  she  was  naturally  fearless,  and  she  cheered  herself 
with  the  thought  that  she  was  stronger  than  the  grin- 
ning old  man  who  stood  before  her.  She  was  sure  that 
if  he  resorted  to  violence  she  could  master  him.  Still, 
she  was  in  haste.  She  was  anxious  to  do  what  she  had 
to  do,  and  escape. 

And:  "I  must  see  Walterson!"  she  told  him  loudly, 
looking  down  on  him,  and  instinctively  keeping  her 
skirts  clear  of  the  unswept  floor.  "  He  was  here,  I  know, 
some  days  ago,"  she  continued  sharply.  "Don't  say  you 
don't  understand,  because  you  do !  But  fetch  him,  or 
tell  me  where  he  is.  Do  you  hear?" 

The  old  man  moved  his  jaw  to  and  fro.  He  grinned 
senilely. 


THE  GOLDEN  SHIP  323 

"He  was  here,  eh?"  he  drawled. 

"Yes,  he  was  here,"  Henrietta  returned,  taking  a  tone 
of  authority  with  him.  "And  I  must  see  him." 

"Ay?" 

"It  is  to  do  no  harm  to  him,"  she  explained.  "Tell 
him  Miss  Damer  is  here.  Miss  Damer,  do  you  hear? 
He  will  see  me,  I  am  sure." 

"Ay?"  he  said  again  in  the  same  half- vacant  tone. 
"Ay?" 

But  he  did  not  go  beyond  that;  nor  did  he  make  any 
movement  to  comply.  And  she  was  beginning  to  think 
him  wholly  imbecile  when  his  eyes  left  hers  and  fixed 
themselves  on  the  front  of  her  riding-coat.  Then,  after 
a  moment's  silence,  during  which  she  patted  the  floor 
with  her  foot  in  fierce  impatience,  he  raised  his  claw-like 
hand  and  stretched  it  slowly  towards  her  throat. 

She  stepped  back,  but  as  much  in  anger  as  in  fear. 
Was  the  man  imbecile,  or  very  wicked  ? 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  sharply.  "Don't  you 
understand  what  I  have  said  to  you  ?" 

For  the  moment  he  seemed  to  be  disconcerted  by  her 
movement.  He  stood  in  the  same  place,  slowly  blinking 
his  weak  eyes  at  her.  Then  he  turned  and  moved  in  a 
slip-shod  fashion  to  the  hearth  and  threw  on  two  or  three 
morsels  of  touch-wood,  causing  the  fire  to  leap  up  and 
shoot  a  nickering  light  into  the  darker  corners  of  the 
room.  The  gleam  discovered  his  dingy  bed  and  dingier 
curtains,  and  the  shadowy  entrance  to  the  staircase  in 
which  Henrietta  had  once  seen  Walterson.  And  it 
showed  Henrietta  herself,  and  awakened  a  spark  in  her 
angry  eyes. 

The  old  man,  still  stooping,  looked  round  at  her,  his 
chin  on  his  shoulder.  And  slowly,  with  an  odd  crab-like 


324  THE  GOLDEN   SHIP 

movement,  he  edged  his  way  back  to  her.  She  watched 
his  approach  with  a  growing  fear  of  the  gloomy  house 
and  the  silence  and  the  dark  staircase.  She  began  to 
think  he  was  imbecile,  or  worse,  and  that  nothing  could 
be  got  from  him.  And  she  was  in  two  minds  about  re* 
treating — so  powerfully  do  silence  and  mystery  tell  on 
the  nerves — when  he  paused  in  his  advance,  and,  raising 
his  lean,  twitching  hand,  pointed  to  her  neck. 

"Give  it  me,"  he  whimpered.  "Give  it  me — and  I'll 
see,  maybe,  where  he  is." 

She  frowned. 

"What ?"  she  asked.    "What  do  you  want?" 

"The  gold!"  he  croaked.  "The  gold!  At  your  neck, 
lass !  That  sparkles !  Give  it  me !"  opening  and  shut- 
ting his  lean  fingers.  "And  I'll — I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

She  carried  her  fingers  to  the  neck  of  her  gown  and 
touched  the  tiny  gold  medal  struck  to  celebrate  the  birth 
of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  which  she  wore  as  a  clasp  at 
her  throat.  And  relieved  to  find  that  he  meant  no  worse, 
she  smiled.  The  scarecrow  before  her  was  less  of  an 
"innocent"  than  she  had  judged  him.  It  was  so  much 
the  better  for  her  purpose. 

"I  cannot  give  you  this,"  she  said.  "But  I'll  give  you 
its  value,  if  you  will  bring  me  to  Walterson." 

"No,  no,  give  it  me,"  he  whimpered,  grimacing  at  her 
and  making  feeble  clutches  in  the  air.  "Give  it  me!" 

"I  cannot,  I  say,"  she  repeated.  "It  was  my  mother's, 
and  I  cannot  part  with  it.  But  if,"  she  continued  pa- 
tiently, "you  will  do  what  I  ask  I  will  give  you  its  value, 
old  man,  another  day." 

"Give  now!"  he  retorted.  "Give  now!"  And  leering 
with  childish  cunning,  "Trust  the  day  and  greet  the 
morrow!  Groats  in  pouch  ne'er  yet  brought  sorrow! 


THE  GOLDEN  SHIP  325 

Na,  na,  Hinkson,  old  Hinkson  trusts  nobody.  Give  it 
me  now,  lass !  And  I — I  know  what  I  know."  And  in 
a  cracked  and  quavering  voice,  swaying  himself  to  the 
measure, 

"It  is  an  old  saying 

That  few  words  are  best, 
And  he  that  says  little 

Shall  live  most  at  rest. 
And  I  by  my  gossips 

Do  find  it  right  so, 
Therefore  I'll  spare  speech, 

But — I  know  what  I  know. 


I  know  what  I  know !"  he  repeated,  blinking  with  doting 
astuteness, 

"Therefore  I'll  spare  speech, 
But — I  know  what  I  know!" 


Henrietta  stared.  She  would  have  given  him  the 
money,  any  money  in  her  power.  But  imprudently  pru- 
dent, she  had  brought  none  with  her. 

"I  can't  give  it  you  now,"  she  said.  "But  I  will  give 
it  you  to-morrow  if  you  will  do  what  I  ask.  Otherwise  I 
shall  go  and  you  will  get  nothing." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  he  began  to  mumble  with  his 
jaws  and  dance  himself  up  and  down  from  his  knees,  as 
at  her  first  entrance;  with  his  monstrous  head  on  one 
side  and  his  red-lidded  eyes  peering  at  her.  In  the  open, 
in  the  sunshine,  she  would  not  have  feared  him;  she 
would  have  thought  him  only  grotesque  in  his  anger. 
But  shut  up  in  this  hideous  den  with  him,  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  dimly  perceived  danger,  she  felt  her  flesh  creep. 
What  if  he  struck  her  treacherously,  or  took  her  by  sur- 
prise? She  had  read  of  houses  where  the  floors  sank 


326  THE  GOLDEN  SHIP 

under  doomed  strangers,  or  the  testers  of  beds  came 
down  on  them  in  their  sleep.  He  was  capable,  she  was 
sure,  of  anything ;  even  of  murdering  her  for  the  sake  of 
the  two  or  three  guineas'  worth  of  gold  which  she  wore 
at  her  neck.  Yet  she  held  her  ground. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  said  with  spirit.  "If  you  do  not 
tell  me,  I  shall  go.  And  you  will  get  nothing !" 

He  nodded  cunningly. 

"Bide  a  bit!"  he  said  in  a  different  tone.  "Sit  ye 
down,  lass,  sit  ye  down  !  Bide  a  bit,  and  I'll  see." 

He  slippered  his  way  across  the  floor  to  get  a  stool  for 
her.  But  when  he  had  lifted  the  stool  from  the  floor  in 
his  shaking  hands,  she  marked  with  a  quick  leap  of  the 
heart  that  he  had  put  himself  between  her  and  the  door, 
and  that,  with  the  possession  of  the  stool,  his  looks  were 
altered.  The  heavy  block  wavered  in  his  grasp  and  he 
seemed  to  pant  and  stagger  under  its  weight.  But  there 
was  an  ugly  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  sidled  nearer  and 
nearer  to  her ;  a  light  that  meant  murder.  She  was  sure 
that  he  was  going  to  leap  upon  her.  And  she  remem- 
bered that  no  one,  no  one  knew  where  she  was,  no  one 
had  seen  her  enter  the  house.  She  had  only  her  own 
strength  to  look  to,  only  her  own  courage  and  coolness, 
if  she  would  escape  this  creature. 

"Put  down  that  stool !"  she  said. 

"Eh?" 

"Put  down  that  stool !"  she  repeated,  firmly.  And  she 
kept  her  eyes  on  him,  resisting  the  fatal  temptation  to 
glance  at  door  or  window.  "Do  you  hear  me?  Put 
down  that  stool !" 

He  hesitated,  but  her  glance  never  wavered.  And 
slowly  and  unwillingly  he  obeyed.  Shaking  as  with  the 
palsy,  and  with  his  mouth  fallen  open — so  that  he  looked 


THE   GOLDEN  SHIP  327 

more  imbecile  and  less  human  than  ever — he  re- 
linquished the  stool. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Now,"  she  said  bravely,  though  she  was  conscious 
that  the  perspiration  had  broken  out  on  her  brow,  "tell 
me  at  once  where  he  is  ?" 

But  the  old  miser,  though  his  will  had  yielded  to  hers, 
did  not  answer.  He  seemed  to  be  shaken  by  his  defeat, 
and  to  be  at  once  feeble  and  furious.  Glaring  askance 
at  her,  he  tottered  to  the  settle  on  the  hearth  and  sat 
down  on  it,  breathing  heavily. 

"Curse  her!  Curse  her!  Curse  her!"  he  gibbered 
low,  but  audibly.  And  he  licked  his  lips  and  gnashed  his 
toothless  gums  at  her  in  impotent  rage.  "Curse  her! 
Curse  her!"  The  firelight,  now  rising,  now  falling, 
showed  him  sitting  there,  mopping  and  mowing,  like 
some  unclean  Eastern  idol ;  or,  again,  masked  his  revolt- 
ing ugliness. 

The  girl  thought  him  horrible,  thought  it  all  horrible. 
She  felt  for  an  instant  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint. 
But  she  had  gained  the  victory,  she  had  mastered  him, 
and  she  would  make  one  last  attempt  to  attain  her 
object. 

"You  wicked  old  man,"  she  said,  "you  would  have 
hurt  me !  You  wicked  monster !  But  I  am  stronger, 
much  stronger  than  you,  and  I  do  not  fear  you.  Now  I 
am  going  unless  you  tell  me  at  once." 

He  ceased  to  gibber  to  her.  He  beckoned  to  her  to 
approach  him.  But  she  shook  her  head.  He  no  longer 
had  the  stool,  but  he  might  have  some  weapon  hidden 
under  the  seat  of  the  settle.  She  distrusted  him. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  coming  near  you.  You 
are  a  villainous  old  man,  and  I  don't  trust  you." 


328  THE  GOLDEN  SHIP 

"Have  you  no — no  money?"  he  whimpered.  "Noth- 
ing to  give  old  Hinkson?  Poor  old  Hinkson?"  with 
a  feeble  movement  of  his  fingers  on  his  knees,  as  if  he 
drew  bed-clothes  about  him. 

"Where  is  Walterson?"  she  repeated.  "Tell  me  at 
once." 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  whined.     "I  don't  know." 

"He  was  here.    You  do  know.    Tell  me." 

He  averted  his  eyes  and  held  out  a  palsied  hand. 

"Give!"  he  answered.    "Give!" 

But  she  was  relentless. 

"Tell  me,"  she  rejoined,  "or  I  go,  and  you  get  noth- 
ing." She  was  in  earnest  now,  for  she  began  to  despair 
of  drawing  anything  from  him,  and  she  saw  nothing  for 
it  but  to  go  and  return  another  time.  "Do  you  hear?" 
she  continued.  "If  you  do  not  speak  for  me,  I — I  shall 
go  to  those  who  will  know  how  to  make  you  speak." 

It  was  an  idle  threat;  and  one  which  she  had  no  in- 
tention of  executing.  But  the  rage  into  which  it  flung 
him — no  rage  is  so  fierce  as  that  which  is  mingled  with 
fear — fairly  appalled  her.  "Eh?  Eh?"  he  cried,  his 
voice  rising  to  an  inarticulate  scream.  "Eh?  You  will, 
will  you?"  And  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  clawed  the 
air  as  if,  were  she  within  reach,  he  would  have  torn 
her  to  pieces.  "You  devil,  you  witch,  you  besom  !  Go  !" 
he  cried.  "I'll  sort  you!  I'll  sort  you!  I'll  fetch  one 
as  shall — as  shall  dumb  you !" 

There  was  something  so  demoniacal  in  the  old  dotard's 
passion,  in  its  very  futility,  in  its  very  violence,  that 
the  girl  shrank  like  Frankenstein  before  the  monster 
she  had  aroused.  She  turned  to  save  herself,  for,  weak 
as  he  was,  he  seemed  to  be  about  to  fling  himself  upon 
her;  and  she  had  no  stomach  for  the  contact.  But  as 


THE  GOLDEN   SHIP  329 

she  turned — with  a  backward  glance  at  him,  and  an  arm 
stretched  toward  the  door  to  make  sure  of  the  latch — a 
shadow  cast  by  a  figure  passing  before  the  lattice  flitted 
across  the  floor  between  them,  and  a  hand  rested  on  the 
latch. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

THE  DARK  MAID 

THE  substance  followed  the  shadow  so  quickly  that 
Henrietta  had  not  time  to  consider  her  position  before 
the  latch  rose.  The  door  opened,  and  a  girl  entered  hur- 
riedly. The  surprise  was  common  to  both,  for  the  new- 
comer had  closed  the  door  behind  her  before  she  dis- 
cerned Henrietta,  and  then  her  action  was  eloquent. 
She  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  stood  frowning, 
with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  one  shoulder  advanced  as 
if  to  defend  herself.  The  other  hand  remained  on  the 
fastening. 

"You  here?"  she  muttered. 

"Yes,"  Henrietta  replied,  returning  her  look,  and 
speaking  with  a  touch  of  pride.  For  the  feeling  of  dis- 
like was  instinctive;  if  Bess's  insolent  smile  had  not 
stamped  itself  on  her  memory — on  that  first  morning  at 
the  Low  Wood,  which  seemed  so  very,  very  long  ago — 
Henrietta  had  still  known  that  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  an  enemy.  "Are  you — his  daughter?"  she  continued. 

"Yes,"  Bess  answered.  She  did  not  move  from  the 
door,  and  she  maintained  her  attitude,  as  if  the  surprise 
that  had  arrested  her  still  kept  her  hand  on  the  key. 
"Yes,"  she  repeated,  "I  am.  You  don't" — with  a  glance 
from  one  to  the  other — "like  him,  I  see!" 

"That  is  no  matter,"  Henrietta  answered  with  dig- 
330 


THE  DARK  MAID  331 

nity.  "I  am  not  here  for  him,  nor  to  see  him;  I  wish 
to  see " 

"Your  lover?" 

Henrietta  winced,  and  her  face  turned  scarlet.  And 
now  there  was  no  question  of  the  hostility  between  them. 
Bess's  dark,  smiling  face  was  insolence  itself. 

"What?  Wasn't  he  that?"  the  gipsy  girl  continued. 
"If  he  was  not" — with  a  coarse  look — "what  do  you 
want  with  him?" 

Silenced  for  the  moment  by  the  other's  taunt,  Hen- 
rietta now  found  her  voice. 

"I  wish  to  see  him,"  she  said.  "That  is  enough  for 
you." 

"Oh,  is  it?"  Bess  replied.  She  had  taken  her  hand 
from  the  key  and  moved  a  pace  or  two  into  the  room,  so 
as  to  confront  her  rival  at  close  quarters.  "That's  my 
affair!  I  fancy  you  will  have  to  tell  me  a  good  deal 
more  before  you  do  see  him." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  why?"  mimicking  her  rudely.  "Why?  Be- 
cause  " 

"What  are  you  to  him?" 

"What  you  were!"  Bess  answered. 

Henrietta's  face  flamed  anew.  But  the  insult  no 
longer  found  her  unprepared.  She  saw  that  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  woman  dangerous  and  reckless; 
and  one  who  considered  her  a  rival.  On  the  hearth 
crouched  and  gibbered  that  fearful  old  man.  The  door 
was  locked — the  action  had  not  been  lost  on  her;  and 
no  living  being,  no  one  outside  that  door,  knew  that  she 
was  here. 

"You  are  insolent !"  was  all  she  answered. 

"But  it  is  true  !"  Bess  said.  "Or,  if  it  is  not  true " 


332  THE  DARK  MAID 

"It  is  not  true!"  with  a  glance  of  scorn.  She  knew 
even  in  her  innocence  that  this  girl  had  been  more  to 
him. 

"Then  why  do  you  ask  for  him?"  with  derision. 
"What  do  you  want  with  him?  What  right  have  you 
to  ask  for  him?" 

"I  wish  to  see  him,"  Henrietta  answered.  She  would 
not,  if  she  could  avoid  it,  let  her  fears  appear.  After 
all,  it  was  daylight,  and  she  was  strong  and  young; 
a  match,  she  thought,  for  the  other  if  the  old  man  had 
not  been  there.  "I  wish  to  see  him,  that  is  all,  and  that 
is  enough,"  she  repeated,  firmly. 

Bess  did  not  answer  at  once.  Indeed,  at  this  point 
there  came  over  her  a  change,  as  if  either  the  other's 
courage  impressed  her,  or  cooler  thoughts  suggested  a 
different  course  of  action.  Her  eyes  still  brooded  malev- 
olently on  the  other's  face,  as  if  she  would  gladly  have 
spoiled  her  beauty,  and  her  sharp,  white  teeth  gleamed. 
But  to  Henrietta's  last  words  she  did  not  answer.  She 
seemed  to  be  wavering,  to  be  uncertain.  And  at  last, 

"Do  you  mean  him  fair?"  she  asked.  "That  is  the 
question." 

"I  mean  no  harm  to  him." 

"Upon  your  honour?" 

"Upon  my  honour." 

"I'd  tear  you  limb  from  limb  if  you  did !"  Bess  cried 
in  the  old  tone  of  violence.  And  the  look  which  ac- 
companied the  words  matched  them.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment, "If  I  could  believe  you,"  she  said  more  quietly, 
"it  would  be  well  and  good.  But " 

"You  may  believe  me.    Why  should  I  do  him  harm?" 

Bess  bit  her  nails  in  doubt;  and  for  the  first  time 
since  her  entrance  she  turned  her  eyes  from  her  rival. 


THE  DARK  MAID  333 

Perhaps  for  this  reason  Henrietta's  courage  rose.  She 
told  herself  that  she  had  been  foolish  to  feel  fear  a 
few  minutes  before:  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
scared  by  a  few  rude  words,  such  as  women  of  this  class 
used  on  the  least  provocation.  And  the  temptation  to 
drop  the  matter  if  she  could  escape  uninjured  gave  way 
to  a  brave  determination  to  do  all  that  was  possible. 
She  resolved  to  be  firm,  yet  prudent;  and  to  persevere. 
And  when  the  dialogue  was  resumed  the  tone  on  each 
side  was  more  moderate. 

"Well,"  Bess  said,  with  a  grudging  air,  "perhaps  you 
may  not  wish  to  do  him  harm.  I  don't  know,  my  lass. 
But  you  may  do  it,  all  the  same." 

"How?" 

"If  you  think  he  is  here  you  are  mistaken." 

Henrietta  had  already  come  to  this  conclusion. 

"Still,"  she  said,  "I  can  go  to  him." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  are  to  go  to  him." 

"I  will  go  anywhere." 

"Ay,"  with  contempt.  "And  so  will  a  many  more  at 
your  heels." 

"No  one  saw  me  come  here,"  Henrietta  said. 

"No.  But  it  will  be  odd  if  no  one  sees  you  leave  here. 
I  met  Bishop  as  I  came,  and  another  with  him,  hot-foot 
after  you,  both,  and  raising  the  country  as  fast  as  they 
could." 

Henrietta  frowned.  She  gazed  through  the  window. 
Then  she  looked  again  at  Bess. 

"Is  he  far  from  here?"  she  asked. 

"That's  telling,  and  I'm  not  going  to  tell.  Far  or 

near,  I  don't  see  how  you  are  to  go  to  him,  unless " 

She  broke  off,  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  as  if  she 
put  away  a  thought  that  had  occurred  to  her,  "No," 


334  THE  DARK  MAID 

she  said  with  decision,  "I  see  no  way.  There  is  no 
way." 

To  Henrietta,  the  girl,  the  situation,  the  surround- 
ings, and  not  least  her  own  role,  were  odious.  Merely 
to  negotiate  with  such  an  one  as  this  was  a  humiliation ; 
but  to  endure  her  open  scorn,  to  feel  her  cheeks  burn 
under  the  fire  of  her  taunts,  was  hateful.  Yet  failure 
in  the  enterprise  from  which  she  had  let  herself  expect 
so  much  was  still  worse — still  worse;  and  the  prospect 
of  it  overcame  her  pride.  She  could  not  accept  the 
defeat  of  all  her  hopes  and  expectations.  She  could 
not. 

"You  said  'unless/  "  she  retorted. 

Bess  laughed. 

"Ay,  but  it's  an  'unless/  "  she  answered  contempt- 
uously, "that  you  are  not  the  one  to  fill  up." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say,"  Bess  answered  impudently.  And  vault- 
ing sideways  on  the  table,  she  sat  swinging  her  feet,  and 
eyeing  the  other  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless  you  like  to  stay  here  until  it  is  dark, — ay, 
dark,  my  pretty  peacock;  and  that  won't  be  for  an 
hour  or  more.  Then  you  may  go  to  him  safely.  Not 
before !  But  you  fine  ladies,"  with  a  look  that  took  in 
Henrietta,  from  her  high-piled  hair  and  flushed  face  to 
the  hem  of  her  skirt,  "are  afraid  of  your  shadows,  I'm 
told." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  my  shadow,"  Henrietta  answered. 

"You're  afraid  of  the  dark,  or  why  didn't  you  come 
when  he  asked  you?  And  when  you  could  have  helped 
him?  Why  did  you  not  come  then  and  say  what  you 
chose  to  him?" 


THE  DARK  MAID  335 

"I  did  come,"  Henrietta  answered  coldly.  "It  was 
he  who  failed  to  meet  me." 

"That's  a  nice  flim-flam!"  Bess  rejoined,  with  in- 
credulity. "You're  not  one  to  venture  yourself  out  after 
moonrise,  I'll  be  bound.  And  so  I  told  him !  But  any 
way,"  sliding  to  her  feet,  and  speaking  with  decision, 
"he's  not  here,  and  you  can't  see  him !  And  to  tell  the 
truth,  I'd  as  lief  have  your  room  as  your  company,  that 
being  so." 

She  turned  to  the  door  as  if  to  open  it.  But  Hen- 
rietta did  not  move.  She  was  deep  in  thought.  The 
sneering  words,  the  dark  handsome  face,  filled  her  with 
distrust;  and  with  something  like  loathing  of  herself 
when  she  reflected  that  the  man  she  sought  had  been 
this  girl's  lover.  But  they  also  aroused  her  spirit.  They 
spurred  her  to  the  step  which  the  other  dared  her  to 
take.  Was  she  to  show  herself  as  a  timid  thing,  as  poor 
a  creature  as  this  gipsy  girl  deemed  her?  She  had 
come  hither  with  her  heart  set  upon  a  prize;  was  she 
to  relinquish  that  prize  because  its  pursuit  demanded 
an  ordinary  amount  of  courage — such  courage  as  this 
village  girl  possessed  and  made  naught  of  ? 

And  yet — and  yet  she  hesitated.  She  was  not  afraid 
of  the  girl;  she  was  not  afraid — she  told  herself — of 
the  man  who  had  once  professed  to  be  her  lover:  but 
there  might  be  others,  and  it  would  be  dark.  If  the 
boy  were  there,  there  would  be  others.  And  she  was 
not  sure  that  she  was — not  afraid.  For  the  old  man 
by  the  fireside,  with  his  squalid  clothes  and  his 
horrible  greediness,  made  her  flesh  creep.  She  hesi- 
tated, until  Bess,  with  a  sneer,  bade  her  to  go  if  she  was 
going. 

"I'd  as  soon  see  your  back,"  she  continued,  "and  ha' 


336  THE  DARK  MAID 

done  with  it.  I  know  your  sort !  All  fine  feathers  and 
as  much  spunk  as  a  mouse !" 

Henrietta  made  up  her  mind.  She  sat  down  on  the 
nearest  stool. 

"I  shall  remain,"  she  said,  "and  go  with  you  to  see 
him." 

"Not  you !    So  what's  the  use  of  talking?" 

"I  shall  go,"  Henrietta  replied  firmly.  "It  will  be 
dark  in  an  hour.  I  will  remain  and  go  with  you." 

Bess  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  answered  nothing. 
But  had  Henrietta  caught  sight  of  her  smile,  she  had 
certainly  changed  her  mind. 

Even  without  that,  and  unwarned,  the  girl  found,  as 
they  sat  there  in  silence,  and  the  minutes  passed  and  the 
light  faded,  much  ground  for  hesitation.  The  words 
which  Clyne  had  used  when  he  forbade  her  to  risk  her- 
self, the  terms  in  which  he  had  described  the  desperate 
plight  of  the  men  whom  she  must  beard,  the  fears  that 
had  assailed  her  when  she  had  gone  after  dark  to  meet 
a  peril  less  serious — all  these  things  recurred  to  her 
memory,  and  scared  her.  By  pressing  her  lips  together 
she  maintained  a  show  of  unconcern;  but  only  because 
the  dusk  hid  her  loss  of  colour.  She  repented — gravely ; 
but  she  had  not  the  courage  to  draw  back.  She  shrank 
from  meeting — as  she  must  meet,  if  she  rose  to  go — 
the  other's  smile  of  triumph ;  she  shrank  from  the  sense 
of  humiliation  under  which  she  would  smart  after  she 
had  escaped.  She  had  cast  the  die  and  must  dare.  She 
must  see  the  enterprise  through.  And  she  sat  on.  But 
she  was  sure  that  she  could  hardly  suffer  an)^thing  worse 
than  she  suffered  during  those  minutes,  while  her  fate 
still  lay  in  her  hands,  while  the  power  to  withdraw  was 
still  hers,  and  indecision  plucked  at  her.  The  man 


THE  DARK  MAID  337 

who  fights  with  his  back  to  the  wall  suffers  less  than 
when,  before  he  drew  his  blade,  imagination  dealt  him 
a  score  of  deaths. 

The  old  man  continued  to  grumble  over  the  fire ;  and 
seldom,  but  sometimes,  he  laid  his  chin  on  his  shoulder 
and  looked  back  at  her.  Bess,  on  the  contrary,  gazed 
at  her  as  the  cat  at  the  mouse ;  but  with  her  back  to  the 
light  and  her  own  face  in  shadow,  so  that  whatever 
thoughts  or  passions  clouded  her  dark  eyes,  they  passed 
unseen.  Presently,  as  the  light  failed,  Bess's  head  be- 
came no  more  than  a  dark  knob  breaking  the  lower  line 
of  dusty  panes ;  while  through  the  upper  a  patch  of  pale 
green  sky,  promising  frost,  held  Henrietta's  eyes  and 
raised  a  still  but  solemn  voice  amid  the  tumult  of  her 
thoughts.  That  morsel  of  sky  was  the  only  clean,  pure 
thing  within  sight,  and  it  faded  quickly,  and  became 
first  grey  and  then  a  blur  of  darkness.  By  that  time 
the  room,  with  its  close,  fetid  odours  and  its  hints 
at  gruesome  secrets,  had  sunk  into  the  blackness  of 
night. 

The  fire  gave  out  a  dull  glow,  but  it  went  no  farther 
than  the  hearth.  Yet  presently  it  was  the  cause  of  an 
illusion,  if  illusion  it  was,  which  gave  Henrietta  a  shock. 
Turning  her  eyes  from  the  window — it  seemed  to  her 
that  longer  waiting  would  break  her  down — she  saw 
the  outline  of  the  old  miser's  figure,  but  erect  and  much 
closer  to  her  than  before — and,  unless  she  was  mistaken, 
with  hands  outstretched  as  if  to  clutch  her  neck.  She 
uttered  a  low  cry,  and  rose,  and  stepped  back.  On  the 
instant  he  vanished.  But  whether  he  sank  down,  or 
retreated,  or  had  never  stirred,  she  could  not  be  sure; 
while  her  cry  found  an  echo  in  Bess's  mischievous 
laughter. 


338  THE  DARK  MAID 

"Ha!  ha!  You're  not  quite  so  bold!"  Bess  cried, 
with  enjoyment,  "as  you  were  an  hour  ago,  I  reckon!" 

The  jeer  gave  a  fillip  to  Henrietta's  pride. 

"I  am  ready,"  she  said,  though  her  voice  shook  a 
little. 

"And  you'll  go?" 

"Yes,"  coldly;  "I  shall  go." 

"Did  you  think  he  was  going  to  twist  your  pretty 
neck?"  Bess  rejoined.  "Was  that  it?  But  come,"  in 
a  more  sober  tone,  "we'll  go.  Good-night,  old  man!" 
And  moving  to  the  door  with  the  ease  of  one  who  knew 
every  foot  of  the  room,  she  unlocked  it.  A  breath  of 
fresh,  cold  air,  blowing  on  her  cheek,  informed  Hen- 
rietta that  the  door  was  open.  She  groped  her  way  to  it. 

"Do  you  wait  here,"  Bess  whispered,  "while  I  see 
if  the  coast  is  clear.  You'll  hear  an  owl  hoot;  then 
come." 

But  Henrietta  was  not  going  to  be  left  with  that  old 
man.  She  crept  outside  the  door  and,  holding  it  behind 
her,  waited.  The  night  was  dark  as  well  as  cold,  for 
the  moon  would  not  rise  for  some  hours ;  and  Henrietta 
wondered,  as  she  drew  her  hood  about  her  neck,  how  they 
were  to  go  anywhere.  Presently  the  owl  hooted  low, 
and  she  released  the  door,  and  groped  her  way  round 
the  house  and  between  the  fir  trunks  to  the  gate.  A 
hand,  rough  but  small,  clutched  her  wrist  and  turned 
her  about;  a  voice  whispered,  "Come!"  and  the  two, 
Bess  acting  as  guide,  set  off  in  silence  along  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  Troutbeck. 

"How  far  is  it?"  Henrietta  muttered,  when  they  had 
gone  a  distance,  that  in  the  night  seemed  a  good  half 
mile. 

"That's  telling,"  Bess  answered.    "'Tain't  far.    Turn 


THE  DARK  MAID  339 

here!  Eight!  right!"  pushing  her.  "Now  wait  while 
I " 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

Bess  did  not  explain  that  she  was  opening  a  gate. 
Instead,  she  impelled  the  other  forward  and  squeezed 
her  arm  to  impress  on  her  the  need  of  silence.  Hen- 
rietta felt  that  the  ground  over  which  they  were  passing 
was  at  once  softer  and  more  uneven,  and  she  guessed 
that  they  had  left  the  road.  A  moment  later  the  air 
met  her  cheek  more  coldly,  and  the  gloom  seemed  less 
opaque.  She  conjectured  that  she  stood  on  the  brow 
of  a  hill — or  a  precipice — and  involuntarily  she  recoiled. 
But  Bess  dragged  her  on,  down  a  slope  so  steep  that, 
although  the  girl  trod  with  caution,  she  was  scarcely  ahle 
to  keep  her  feet. 

Feeling  her  still  hang  hack,  the  gipsy  girl  plucked 
at  her. 

"Hurry!"  she  whispered.  "Hurry,  can't  you?  We 
are  nearly  there." 

"Where?" 

"Why,  there!" 

But  the  cold  and  the  darkness  and  the  other's  hostile 
tone  had  shaken  Henrietta's  nerves.  She  jerked  herself 
free. 

"Where  ?"  she  repeated  firmly.  "Where  are  we  going ? 
I  shall  not  go  farther  unless  you  tell  me." 

"Nonsense!" 

"I  shall  not." 

"Lethe!    Lethe!" 

"Tell  me  this  minute!" 

"To  Tyson  the  doctor's,  if  you  must  know,"  Bess  re- 
plied grudgingly. 

"Oh!" 


340  THE  DARK  MAID 

She  knew  now.  She  stood  half  way  down  the  smooth 
side  of  the  hollow  in  which  Tyson's  farm  nestled.  She 
remembered  the  large  kitchen,  with  the  shining  oaken 
table  and  the  woman  with  the  pale  plump  face  who  had 
crouched  on  the  settle  and  gone  in  fear  of  nights.  And 
though  the  place  still  stood  a  trifle  uncanny  in  her 
memory,  and  the  uncomfortable  impression  which  the 
woman's  complaints  had  made  on  her,  had  not  quite 
passed  from  her,  the  knowledge  relieved  her. 

She  knew  at  least  where  she  was,  and  that  the  place 
lay  barely  a  furlong  from  the  road.  She  might  count, 
too,  on  the  aid  of  the  doctor's  wife,  who  was  jealous  of 
this  very  girl.  And  after  all,  in  comparison  with  the 
miser's  wretched  abode,  Tyson's  house,  though  lonely, 
seemed  an  everyday  dwelling,  and  safe. 

The  news  reassured  her.  When  Bess,  in  a  tone  of 
scorn  that  thinly  masked  disappointment,  flung  at  her 
the  words,  "Then  you  are  not  coming  ?"  she  was  ready. 

"Yes,  I  am  coming,"  she  said.  And  she  yielded  her- 
self again  to  Bess's  guidance.  In  less  than  a  minute 
they  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  hollow.  They  skirted 
the  fold-yard  and  the  long,  silent  buildings  that  bulked 
somewhat  blacker  than  the  night.  They  turned  a  corner, 
and  a  dog  not  far  from  them  stirred  its  chain  and 
growled.  But  Bess  stilled  it  by  a  word,  and  the  two 
halted  in  the  gloom,  where  a  thin  line  of  light  escaped 
beneath  a  door, 


CHAPTER    XXX 

BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

BESS  knocked  twice,  and,  stooping  to  the  keyhole,  re- 
peated the  owl's  hoot.  Presently  a  bar  was  drawn  back, 
and  after  a  brief  interval,  which  those  within  appeared 
to  devote  to  listening,  the  key  was  turned,  and  the  door 
was  opened  far  enough  to  admit  one  person  at  a  time. 
The  two  slid  in,  Bess  pushing  Henrietta  before  her. 

The  moment  she  had  passed  the  threshold  Henrietta 
stood,  dazzled  by  the  light  and  bewildered  by  what  she 
saw.  Nor  was  it  her  eyes  only  that  were  unpleasantly 
affected.  A  voice,  loud  and  blustering,  hailed  her  ap- 
pearance with  a  curse,  fired  from  the  heart  of  a  cloud 
of  tobacco  smoke.  And  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  reek 
of  spirits. 

"By  G — d!"  the  voice  which  had  affrighted  her  re- 
peated. "Who's  this?  Are  you  mad,  girl?"  And  the 
speaker  sprang  to  his  feet.  He  was  one  of  two  thick- 
set, unshaven  men  who  were  engaged  in  playing  cards 
on  a  corner  of  the  table.  His  comrade  kept  his  place, 
but  stared,  a  jug  half  lifted  to  his  lips;  while  a  third 
man,  the  only  other  present,  a  loose-limbed,  good-look- 
ing gipsy  lad,  who  had  opened  the  door,  grinned  at  the 
unexpected  vision — as  if  his  stake  in  the  matter  was 
less,  and  his  interest  in  feminine  charms  greater.  But 
nowhere,  though  the  kitchen  was  wastefully  lighted,  and 
her  frightened  eyes  flew  to  every  part  of  it,  was  the 
man  to  be  seen  whom  she  came  to  meet. 

341 


342  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

She  turned  quickly  upon  Boss,  as  if  she  thought  she 
might  still  escape.  But  the  door  was  already  closed 
behind  them,  the  key  turned.  And  before  she  could 
speak : 

"Have  done  a  minute!"  Bess  muttered,  pushing  her 
aside.  "And  let  me  deal  with  them."  Then,  advancing 
into  the  room — but  not  before  she  had  seen  the  great 
bar  drawn  across  the  locked  door — "Shut  your  trap!" 
she  cried  to  the  man  who  had  spoken.  "And  listen!" 

"Who's  this?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"Who  is  it,  I  say?"  the  man  cried,  even  more  vio- 
lently. "And  what  the  blazes  have  you  brought  her  here 
for?"  And  he  poured  out  a  string  of  oaths  that  drove 
the  blood  from  Henrietta's  cheeks.  "Who  is  it?  Who 
is  it?"  he  continued.  "D'you  think,  you  vixen,  that 
because  my  neck  is  in  a  noose,  I  want  some  one  to  pull 
the  rope  tight?" 

"What  a  fool  you  are  to  talk  before  her!"  Bess  an- 
swered, with  quiet  ,scorn.  "If  any  one  pulls  the  hemp 
it's  you." 

"Lord  help  you,  I'll  do  more  than  talk!"  the  man 
rejoined.  And  he  snatched  up  a  heavy  pistol  that  lay 
on  the  table  beside  the  cards.  "  Quick,  will  you  ?  Speak ! 
Who  is  it,  and  why  do  you  bring  her?" 

"I'll  speak  quick  enough,  but  not  here!"  Bess  an- 
swered, contemptuously.  "If  you  must  jaw,  come  into 
the  dairy !  Come,  don't  think  that  I'm  afraid  of  you !" 
And  she  turned  to  Henrietta,  who,  stricken  dumb  by 
the  scene,  recognised  too  late  the  trap  into  which  she 
had  fallen.  "Do  you  stay  here,"  she  said,  "unless  you 
want  his  hand  on  you.  Sit  there!"  pointing  abruptly 
to  the  settle,  "and  keep  mum  until  I  come  back." 


BESS'S  TRIUMPH  343 

But  Henrietta's  terror  at  the  prospect  of  being  aban- 
doned by  the  girl,  though  that  girl  had  betrayed  her, 
was  such  that  she  seized  Bess  by  the  sleeve  and  held  her 
back. 

"Don't  leave  me!"  she  said.  And  again,  with  a 
shadow  of  the  old  imperiousness,  "You  are  not  to  leave 
me !  Do  you  hear  ?  I  will  come  with  you.  I— 

"You'll  do  what  you're  bid!"  Bess  answered.  "Go 
and  sit  down !"  And  the  savage  glint  in  her  eyes  put 
a  new  fear  into  Henrietta. 

She  went  to  the  settle,  her  limbs  unsteady  under  her, 
her  eyes  glancing  round  for  a  chance  of  escape.  Where 
was  the  woman  of  the  house?  Where  was  Tyson? 
Chief est  of  all,  where  was  Walterson?  She  saw  no  sign 
of  any  of  them.  And  terrified  to  the  heart,  she  sat 
shivering  where  the  other  had  ordered  her  to  sit. 

Bess  opened  a  side  door  which  led  to  the  dairy,  a 
cold,  flagged  room,  lower  by  a  couple  of  steps  than  the 
kitchen.  She  took  up  a  candle,  one  of  five  or  six  which 
were  flaring  on  the  table,  and  she  beckoned  to  the  two 
men  to  follow  her.  When  they  had  done  so,  the  one 
who  had  taken  up  the  pistol  still  muttering  and  casting 
suspicious  glances  over  his  shoulder,  she  slammed  to  the 
door.  But,  either  by  accident,  or  with  a  view  to  intimi- 
date her  prisoner,  she  let  it  leap  ajar  again ;  so  that  much 
of  the  talk  which  followed  reached  Henrietta's  ears. 
It  soon  banished  from  the  unhappy  girl's  cheeks  the 
blood  which  the  gipsy  lad's  stare  of  admiration  had 
brought  to  them. 

Lunt's  first  word  was  an  oath.  "You  know  well 
enough,"  he  cried,  "that  we  want  no  praters  hero  !  Why 
have  you  brought  this  fool  here  to  peach  on  us?" 

"Why?" 


344  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

"Ay,  why?"  Lunt  repeated.  "In  two  days  more  we 
had  all  got  clear,  and  nothing  better  managed !" 

"And  thanks  to  whom  ?"  the  girl  retorted  with  energy. 
"Who  has  hidden  you?  Who  has  kept  you?  Who  has 
done  all  for  you  ?  But  there  it  is !  Now  my  lad's  gone, 
and  Thistlewood's  gone,  you  think  all's  yours !  And  as 
much  of  yourselves  as  masterless  dogs !" 

"Stow  it!" 

"But  I'll  not !"  she  retorted.    "Whose  house  is  this  ?" 

"Well,  my  lass,  not  yours!"  Giles,  the  less  violent  of 
the  two,  answered. 

"Nor  yours  either!  And,  any  way,  it's  due  to  me 
that  you  are  in  it,  and  not  outside,  with  irons  on  you." 

"But  cannot  you  see,  lass,"  Giles  answered,  in  a  more 
moderate  tone,  "that  you've  upset  all  by  bringing  the 
wench  here  ?  You'll  hear  the  morrow,  or  the  morrow  of 
that,  that  your  lad's  got  clear  to  Leith,  and  Thistlewood 
with  him !  And  then  we  go  our  way,  and  yon  gipsy  will 
carry  off  the  brat  in  his  long  pack,  and  drop  him  the 
devil  cares  where — and  nobody'll  be  the  wiser,  and  his 
father'll  have  a  lesson  that  will  do  him  good!  But, 
now  you've  let  the  girl  in,  what'll  you  do  with  her  when 
we  get  clear?  You  cannot  stow  her  in  the  long  pack, 
and  the  moment  you  let  her  go  her  tongue  will  clack !" 

"How  do  you  know  it  will  clack?"  Bess  asked,  in  a 
tone  that  froze  the  listening  girl's  blood.  "  How  do  you 
know  it  will  clack?"  she  repeated.  "The  lake's  deep 
enough  to  hold  both." 

"But  what's  the  game,  lass?"  Giles  asked.  "Show 
a  glim.  Let's  see  it.  If  you  are  so  fond  of  us,"  in  a 
tone  of  unpleasant  meaning,  "that  you've  brought  her 
— just  to  amuse  us  in  our  leisure,  say  it  out !  Though 
even  then  I'm  not  for  saying  that  the  game  is  worth 


BESS'S  TRIUMPH  345 

the  candle,  my  lass !  Since  coves  in  our  very  particular 
case  has  to  be  careful,  and  the  prettiest  bit  of  red  and 
white  may  hang  a  man  as  quick  as  her  mother !  But  I 
don't  think  you  had  that  in  your  mind,  Bess." 

"Well?" 

"And  that  being  so,  and  hemp  so  cheap,  out  with  it! 
Show  a  glim,  and  you'll  not  find  us  nasty." 

"The  thing's  pretty  plain,  isn't  it?"  Bess  answered, 
coolly.  "You've  had  your  fun.  Why  shouldn't  I  have 
mine?  You'd  a  grudge,  and  you've  paid  it.  Why  am 
I  not  to  pay  mine?" 

"What  has  the  wench  done  to  you?" 

"What's  that  to  you?"1  viciously.  "Stolen  my  lad,  if 
you  like.  Any  Avay,  it's  my  business.  If  I  choose  to 
treat  her  as  you  have  treated  the  brat,  what  is  it  to  you  ? 
If  I've  a  mind  to  give  her  a  taste  of  the  smugglers'  oven, 
what's  that  to  you  ?  Or  if  I  choose  to  spoil  her  looks,  or 
break  her  pride — she's  one  of  those  that  teach  us  to  be- 
have ourselves  lowly  and  reverently  to  all  our  betters — 
and  if  I  choose  to  give  her  a  lesson,  is  it  any  business  but 
mine  ?  She's  crossed  me !  She's  a  peacock  !  And  if  I 
choose  to  have  some  fun  with  her  and  hold  her  nose  to 
the  grindstone,  what's  that  to  you?" 

"But  afterwards?"  Giles  persisted.  "Afterwards,  my 
lass?  What  then?" 

"Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies,"  Bess 
answered.  "For  the  matter  of  that,  if  my  old  dad  once 
gets  his  fingers  round  her  throat  she'll  not  squeak !  You 
may  swear  to  that." 

They  dropped  their  voices  then,  or  they  moved  farther 
from  the  door.  So  that  the  remainder  of  the  debate 
escaped  Henrietta,  though  she  strained  her  ears  to  the 
utmost. 


346  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

She  had  heard  enough,  however;  enough  to  know 
where  she  stood,  and  to  feel  the  cold  grip  of  despair 
close  upon  her.  Fortunately  she  had  had  such  prepara- 
tion as  the  scene  and  the  change  in  Bess's  demeanor  af- 
forded ;  and  while  her  heart  thumped  to  choke  her,  and 
she  could  not  restrain  the  glances  that  like  a  hunted 
hare  she  cast  about  her,  she  neither  fainted  nor  raised 
an  outcry.  The  gipsy  lad,  who  lolled  beside  the  door 
and  never  took  his  bold  eyes  from  her,  detected  the  sud- 
den stillness  of  her  pose  and  her  changed  aspect.  But, 
though  his  gaze  dwelt  as  freely  as  he  pleased  on  her, 
on  the  turn  of  her  pale  cheek,  and  the  curve  of  her 
figure,  he  was  deceived  into  thinking  that  she  did  not 
catch  the  drift  that  was  so  clear  to  him. 

"She's  frightened!"  he  thought,  smacking  his  lips. 
"  She's  frightened  !  But  she'd  be  more  frightened  if  she 
heard  what  they  are  saying.  A  devil,  Bess  is,  a  devil  if 
there  ever  was  one !"  And  he  wondered  whether,  if  he 
told  the  girl,  she  would  cling  to  him,  and  pray  to  him, 
and  kneel  to  him — to  save  her!  He  would  like  that, 
for  she  was  a  pretty  prey;  and  the  prettier  in  his  eyes, 
because  she  was  not  dark-skinned  and  black-eyed,  like 
his  own  women,  but  a  thing  of  creamy  fairness. 

Henrietta  heard  all,  however,  and  understood.  And 
for  a  few  moments  she  was  near  to  swooning.  Then 
the  very  peril  in  which  she  found  herself  steadied  her, 
and  gave  her  power  to  think.  Was  there  any  quarter 
to  which  she  could  look  for  help — outside  or  in?  Out- 
side the  house,  alas,  none;  for  she  had  taken  care,  fatal 
care,  to  blind  her  trail,  and  to  leave  no  trace  by  which 
her  friends  could  find  her!  And  inside,  the  hope  was 
as  slight.  Walterson,  to  whose  pity  she  might  have  ap- 
pealed— with  success,  if  all  chivalry  were  not  dead  in 


BESS'S  TRIUMPH  347 

him — was  gone,  it  seemed.  There  remained  only — a 
feeble  straw  indeed  to  which  to  cling — the  woman  of  the 
house;  the  white-faced  woman  who  had  gone  in  fear, 
and  thought  this  very  girl  Bess  had  designs  on  her  life ! 

But  was  the  woman  here?  She  had  been  very  near 
her  time,  yet  no  cry,  no  whimper  bore  witness  to  the 
presence  of  child  life  in  the  house.  And  the  room  in  its 
wild  and  wasteful  disorder  gave  the  lie  to  the  presence 
of  any  housewife,  however  careless.  The  flagged  floor, 
long  uncleaned  and  unwhitened,  was  strewn  with  broken 
pipe-stems,  half-burned  pipe-lights,  gnawed  bones  and 
dirty  platters.  The  bright  oaken  table,  the  pride  of 
generations  of  thrifty  wives,  was  a  litter  of  dog's-eared 
cards  and  over-set  bottles,  broken  loaves,  and  pewter 
dishes.  One  of  the  oat-cake  springs  hung  loose,  tearing 
the  ceiling ;  in  one  corner  a  bacon  chest  gaped  open  and 
empty.  In  another  corner  a  pile  of  dubious  bedding  lay 
as  its  occupant  had  left  it.  The  chimney  corner  was 
cumbered  with  logs  of  wood.  Greasy  frying-pans  and 
half -cleaned  pots  lay  everywhere ;  and  on  the  whole,  and 
on  a  medley  of  tattered  things  too  repulsive  to  mention, 
a  show  of  candles,  that  would  have  scared  the  least 
frugal  dame,  cast  a  useless  glare. 

In  a  word,  everything  within  sight  proved  that  the 
house  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  gang  who  surrounded  her. 
And  if  that  were  so?  If  no  help  were  possible?  For 
an  instant  panic  gripped  her.  The  room  swam  round, 
and  she  had  to  grasp  the  settle  with  her  hands  to  main- 
tain her  composure.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  What  could 
she  do,  thus  trapped?  What?  What? 

She  must  think — for  her  own  sake,  for  the  child's 
sake,  who,  it  was  clear,  was  also  in  their  power.  But 
it  was  hard,  very  hard,  to  think  with  that  man's  eyes 


348  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

gloating  on  her;  and  when  with  every  second  the  door 
of  the  dairy,  where  they  were  conferring,  might  open, 
and — she  knew  not  what  horror  might  befall  her.  And 
— and  then  again  there  was  the  child ! 

For  she  spared  it  a  thought  of  pity,  grudgingly  taken 
from  her  own  need.  And  then  the  door  opened.  And 
Bess,  carrying  the  light  above  her  head,  came  up  the 
steps,  followed  by  the  two  men. 

"We'll  let  her  down  soft!"  she  said,  as  she  appeared. 
"We'll  make  her  drudge  first  and  smart  afterwards! 
And  she'll  come  to  it  the  quicker." 

"Nay,  Bess,"  one  of  the  men  answered  with  a  grin, 
"but  you'll  not  spoil  her  pretty  fingers." 

"Oh,  won't  we?"  Bess  answered.  And  turning  to 
Henrietta,  and  throwing  off  the  mask,  "Now,  peacock!" 
she  said,  "I've  got  you  here  and  yon  can't  escape.  I 
am  going  to  put  your  nose  to  the  grindstone.  I'm  going 
to  see  if  you  are  of  the  same  stuff  as  other  people !  Can 
you  cook?" 

Henrietta  did  not  know  what  to  answer;  nor  whether 
she  dared  assert  herself.  She  tried  to  frame  the  words, 
"Where  is  Walterson?  Where  is  Walterson?  If  he  is 
not  here,  let  me  go !"  But  she  knew  that  they  would  not 
let  her  go.  And,  unable  to  speak,  she  stood  dumb  before 
them. 

"Ah,  well,  we'll  see  if  you  can,"  Bess  said,  scoffingly. 
"  I  see  you  know  what's  what,  and  where  you  are.  Come, 
slice  that  bacon !  And  fry  it !  There's  the  knife,  and 
there's  the  flitch,  and  let's  have  none  of  your  airs,  or 
— you'll  have  the  knife  across  your  knuckles.  Do  you 
hear,  cat?  Do  you  understand?  You'll  do  as  you  are 
bid  here.  We'll  see  how  you  like  to  be  undermost." 

The  men  laughed. 


BESS'S  TRIUMPH  349 

"That's  the  way,  Bess,"  one  said.  "Break  her  in,  and 
she'll  soon  come  to  it!" 

"Anyways,  she'll  not  take  my  lad  again!"  Bess  said, 
as  Henrietta,  bending  her  head,  took  the  knife  with  a 
shaking  hand.  "We'll  give  her  something  to  do,  and 
she'll  sleep  the  sounder  for  it  when  she  goes  to  bed." 

"Ay,"  said  Giles,  with  a  smile.  "Hope  she'll  like 
her  room !" 

"She'll  lump  it'  or  like  it!"  said  Bess.  "She's  one 
of  them  that  grinds  our  faces.  We'll  see  how  she  likes 
to  be  ground!" 

Involuntarily  Henrietta,  stooping  with  a  white  face 
to  her  work,  shuddered.  But  she  had  no  choice.  To 
beg  for  mercy,  it  was  clear,  was  useless ;  to  resist  was  to 
precipitate  matters,  while  every  postponement  of  the 
crisis  offered  a  chance  of  rescue.  As  long  as  insult  was 
confined  to  words  she  must  put  up  with  it — how  foolish, 
how  foolish  she  had  been  to  come!  She  must  smile — 
though  it  were  awry — and  play  the  sullen  or  the  cheer- 
ful, as  promised  best.  The  door  was  locked  on  her. 
She  had  no  friends  within  reach.  Help  there  was  none. 
She  was  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  these  wretches,  and 
her  only  hope  was  that,  if  she  did  their  bidding,  she 
might  awaken  a  spark  of  pity  in  the  breast  of  one  or 
other  of  them. 

Still,  she  did  not  quite  lose  her  presence  of  mind.  As 
she  bent  over  her  task,  and  with  shaking  fingers  hacked 
at  the  tough  rind  of  the  bacon,  the  while  Bess  rained 
on  her  a  shower  of  gibes  and  the  men  grinned  at  the 
joke,  her  senses  were  on  the  alert.  Once  she  fancied  a 
movement  and  a  smothered  cry  in  the  room  above ;  and 
she  had  work  to  keep  her  eyes  lowered  when  Bess  im- 
mediately went  out.  She  might  have  thought  more  of 


350  BESS'S  TRIUMPH 

the  matter;  but  left  alone  with  the  three  men  she  had 
her  terrors.  She  dared  not  let  her  mind  or  her  eyes 
wander.  To  go  on  with  the  task,  and  give  the  men  not 
so  much  as  a  look,  seemed  the  only  course. 

For  the  present  the  three  limited  their  coarse  gallan- 
tries to  words.  Nay,  when  the  gipsy  lad  would  have 
crept  nearer  to  her,  the  others  bade  him  have  done ; 
adding,  that  kissing  the  cook-maid  never  cleaned  a  dish. 

Then  Bess  came  back  and  forced  her  to  hold  the  pan 
on  the  fire,  though  the  heat  scorched  her  cheeks. 

"We've  to  do  it !  See  how  you  like  it !"  the  girl  cried, 
standing  over  her  vindictively.  "And  see  you  don't 
drop  it,  my  lass,  or  I'll  lay  the  pan  to  your  cheek. 
You're  proud  of  your  pink  and  white" — thrusting  her 
almost  into  the  fire — "see  how  it  will  stand  a  bit  of  cook- 
maid's  work !" 

Pride  helped  Henrietta  to  restrain  the  rising  sob,  the 
complaint.  And  luckily  it  needed  but  another  minute 
to  complete  the  cooking.  Bess  and  the  three  men  sat 
down  to  the  table,  and  Bess's  first  humour  was  to  make 
her  wait  on  them.  But  a  moment  later  she  changed 
her  mind,  forced  the  girl  to  sit  down,  and,  will  she,  nill 
she,  Henrietta  had  to  swallow,  though  every  morsel 
seemed  to  choke  her,  the  portion  set  for  her. 

"Down  with  it!"  Bess  cried,  spitefully.  "What's 
good  enough  for  us  is  good  enough  for  you !  And  when 
supper's  done  I'll  see  you  to  your  bedroom.  You're  a 
mile  too  dainty,  like  all  your  sort!  Ah,  you'd  like  to 
kill  me  this  minute,  wouldn't  you  ?  That's  what  I  like ! 
I've  often  thought  I  should  like  to  have  one  of  you  pea- 
cocks— who  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  dirt — and  put  my 
foot  upon  her  face !  And  now  I've  got  you — who  stole 
my  lad!  And  you'll  see  what  I'll  do  to  you!" 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

THE  men  followed  Bess's  lead,  and  as  they  supped 
never  ceased  to  make  Henrietta  the  butt  of  odious  jests 
and  more  odious  gallantries;  until,  now  pale,  now  red, 
the  girl  was  eager  to  welcome  any  issue  from  a  position 
so  hateful.  Once,  stung  beyond  reason,  she  sprang  up 
and  would  have  fled  from  them,  with  burning  ears. 
But  Bess  seized  her  by  the  shoulders  and  thrust  her 
back  violently  into  her  seat;  and,  sobered  by  the  force 
used  to  her,  and  terrified  lest  the  men  should  lay  hands 
on  her,  she  resigned  herself. 

Strangely,  the  one  of  the  four  who  said  nothing,  was 
the  one  whom  she  feared  the  most.  The  gipsy  lad  did 
not  speak.  But  his  eyes  never  left  her,  and  something 
in  their  insolent  freedom  caused  her  more  misery  than 
the  others'  coarsest  jests.  He  marked  her  blushes  and 
pallor,  and  her  one  uncontrollable  revolt;  and  like  the 
bird  that  flutters  under  the  spell  of  the  serpent  that 
hopes  to  devour  it,  she  was  conscious  of  this  watching. 
She  was  conscious  of  it  to  such  an  extent,  that  when 
Bess  cried,  "Now  it's  time  you  had  your  bedroom  candle- 
stick, peacock !"  she  did  not  hear,  but  sat  on  as  one  deaf 
and  blind ;  as  the  hare  sits  fascinated  by  the  snake's  eye. 

The  gipsy  smiled.  He  understood.  But  Bess  did 
not,  and  she  tugged  the  girl's  hair  with  sufficient  rough- 
ness to  break  the  spell. 

351 


352  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

"Up !"  she  cried.  "Up  when  I  speak!  Don't  dream 
you're  a  fine  lady  any  longer !  Wait  till  I  get  your  bed 
candlestick — eh,  lads? — and  you'll  be  wiser  to-morrow, 
and  tamer,  too.  See,  my  lass,  that's  for  you!"  And 
she  held  up  a  small  dark-lanthorn,  and  opening  it, 
kindled  the  wick  from  one  of  the  candles.  "Now 
come!  And  do  you — no,  not  you!"  to  the  gipsy, 
who  had  stepped  forward — "you!"  to  Giles, 
"come  with  me  and  see  her  safely  into  her  bed- 
room !" 

Lunt  growled  a  word  or  two. 

"Stow  it!"  Bess  answered,  as  she  darkened  the  Ian- 
thorn.  "It's  to  be  as  I  say.  Here,  give  me  your  wrist, 
girl." 

But  at  that,  fear  gripped  Henrietta.  She  hung  back 
with  a  white  face. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me?"  she  .cried. 
"What  are  you " 

"In  two  minutes  you'll  see!"  Bess  retorted.  And 
with  a  quick  movement  she  grasped  the  girl's  arm. 
"And  be  as  wise  as  I  am.  Lay  hold  of  her  other  arm," 
she  continued  to  Giles.  "It's  no  use  to  struggle,  my 
lady! — and  if  she  cries  out  down  her  at  once.  You 
hear,  do  you?"  she  continued,  addressing  Henrietta, 
who  with  terror  found  herself  as  helpless  as  a  doe  in 
the  hound's  fangs.  "Then  mum,  and  it'll  be  the  better 
for  you.  Here,  do  you  take  the  lanthorn,"  she  went  on, 
handing  it  to  Giles,  "and  I'll  carry  the  victuals.  You 
can  hold  her?" 

"I'll  break  her  wrist  if  she  budges,"  the  man  replied. 
"But,  after  all,  isn't  she  as  well  here?" 

"No,  she's  not!"  Bess  answered,  with  decision.  "Do 
you" — to  Lunt — "open  the  yard  door  for  us,  and  stand 


A  STRANGE  BEDROOM  353 

by  till  we  come  in  again.  No,  not  you,"  to  the  gipsy, 
who  had  again  stepped  forward.  "You're  too  ready, 
my  lad,  and  I  don't  trust  you." 

Fortunately  for  Henrietta,  the  sight  of  the  plate  of 
food  relieved  her  of  her  worst  fears.  She  was  not  to 
be  done  to  death,  but  in  all  probability  to  be  consigned 
to  the  hiding  place  which  held  the  boy.  And  though 
the  prospect  was  not  cheerful,  and  Bess's  manner  was 
cruel  and  menacing,  Henrietta  felt  that  if  this  were  the 
worst  she  could  face  it.  She  could  bear  even  what  the 
child  bore,  and  by  sharing  its  hardships  she  might  do 
something  to  comfort  it.  Always,  too,  there  was  the 
chance  of  escape ;  and  from  the  place,  be  it  out-house  or 
stable,  in  which  they  held  the  boy  confined,  escape  must 
be  more  feasible  than  from  the  house,  with  its  bolts 
and  bars. 

She  had  time  to  make  these  calculations  between  the 
kitchen  and  the  yard  door ;  through  which  they  half-led, 
half-pushed  her  into  the  night.  With  all  a  woman's 
natural  timidity  on  finding  herself  held  and  helpless  in 
the  dark,  she  had  to  put  restraint  upon  herself  not  to 
try  to  break  loose,  not  to  scream.  But  she  conquered 
herself  and  let  them  lead  her,  unresisting  and  as  one 
blindfold,  where  they  pleased. 

It  was  clear  that  they  knew  the  place  well.  For, 
though  the  darkness  in  the  depths  of  this  bowl  in  the 
hills  was  absolute,  they  did  not  unmask  the  lanthorn; 
but  moved  confidently  for  a  distance  of  some  fifty  yards. 
The  dog,  kenneled  near,  had  given  tongue  as  they  left  the 
house.  But  once  only.  And  when  they  paused,  all  was 
so  still  in  the  frosty  mist  that  wrapped  them  about  and 
clutched  the  throat,  that  Henrietta's  ear  caught  the 
trickle  of  water  near  at  hand. 


354  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

''Where  are  we?"  she  muttered.  "Where  are  we?" 
She  hung  back  in  sudden,  uncontrollable  alarm. 

"Mum,  fool !"  Bess  hissed  in  her  ear.  "Be  still,  or  it 
will  be  the  worse  with  you.  Have  you,"  she  continued, 
in  the  same  low  tone,  "undone  the  door,  lad?" 

For  answer  a  wooden  door  groaned  on  its  hinges. 

"Right!"  Bess  murmured.     "Bend  your  head,  girl!" 

Henrietta  obeyed,  and  pushed  forward  by  an  unseen 
hand,  she  advanced  three  paces,  and  felt  a  warmer  air 
salute  her  cheek.  The  door  groaned  again;  she  heard 
a  wooden  bolt  thrust  home.  Bess  let  her  hand  go  and 
unmasked  the  lanthorn. 

Henrietta  shivered.  She  was  in  a  covered  well-head, 
whence  the  water,  after  filling  a  sunken  caldron,  about 
which  the  moss  hung  in  dark,  snaky  wreaths,  escaped 
under  the  wooden  door.  Some  yeoman  of  bygone  days 
had  come  to  the  help  of  nature,  and  after  enlarging  a 
natural  cavity  had  enclosed  it,  to  protect  the  water  from 
pollution.  The  place  was  so  small  that  it  no  more  than 
held  the  three  who  stood  in  it,  nor  all  of  them  dry- 
shod.  And  Henrietta's  heart  sank  indeed  before  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  left  to  pass  the  night  in  this  dank  cave. 

Bess's  next  movement  freed  her  from  this  fear.  The 
girl  turned  the  light  on  the  rough  wall,  and  seizing  an 
innocent-looking  wooden  peg,  which  projected  from  it, 
pushed  the  implement  upwards.  A  piece  of  the  wall,  of 
the  shape  and  size  of  a  large  oven  door,  fell  downwards 
and  outwards,  as  the  tail  of  a  cart  falls.  It  revealed  a 
second  cavity  of  which  the  floor  stood  a  couple  of  feet 
higher  than  the  ground  on  which  they  were.  It  was  very 
like  a  spacious  bread-oven,  though  something  higher  and 
longer ;  apparently  it  had  been  made  in  the  likeness  of 
one. 


A  STRANGE  BEDROOM  355 

But  Henrietta  did  not  think  of  this,  or  of  its  shape 
or  its  purpose.  For  the  same  light,  a  dim,  smoky  lamp 
burning  at  the  far  end  of  the  place,  which  revealed  its 
general  aspect,  disclosed  a  bundle  of  straw  and  a  forlorn 
little  form. 

She  gasped.  For  that  any  human  creature,  much 
more  a  child,  should  be  confined  in  such  a  place,  buried 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  seemed  so  monstrous,  so 
shocking,  that  she  could  not  believe  it! 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her  own 
position  and  her  own  fate,  forgetting  everything  in  her 
horror  and  pity.  "You  have  not  left  the  child  here! 
And  alone!  For  shame!  For  shame!"  she  continued, 
turning  on  them  in  the  heat  of  her  indignation  and 
fearing  them  no  more  than  a  hunter  fears  a  harmless 
snake — which  excites  disgust,  but  not  terror.  "What  do 
you  think  will  happen  to  you?" 

For  a  moment,  strange  to  say,  her  indignation  cowed 
them.  For  a  moment  they  saw  the  thing  as  she  saw  it; 
they  were  daunted.  Then  Bess  sneered: 

"You  don't  like  the  place?" 

"For  that  child?" 

"For  yourself?" 

She  was  burning  with  indignation,  and  for  answer 
she  climbed  into  the  place,  and  went  on  her  hands  and 
knees  to  the  child's  side.  She  bent  over  it,  and  listened 
to  its  breathing. 

"Is't  asleep?"  Bess  asked.  There  was  a  ring  of  anx- 
iety in  her  tone.  And  when  Henrietta  did  not  answer, 
"It's  not  dead?"  she  muttered. 

"Dead?  No,"  Henrietta  replied,  with  a  shudder. 
"But  it's— it's " 

"What?" 


356  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

"It  breathes,  but — but "  She  drew  its  head  on 

to  her  shoulder  and  peered  more  closely  into  the  small 
white  face.  "It  breathes,  but — but  what  is  the  matter 
with  it?  What  have  you  done  to  it?" — glancing  at 
them  suspiciously.  For  the  boy,  after  returning  her 
look  with  lack-lustre  eyes,  had  averted  his  face  from  the 
light  and  from  hers. 

"It's  had  a  dose,"  Bess  answered  roughly — she  had 
had  her  moment  of  alarm.  "In  an  hour  or  two  it  will 
awake.  Then  you  can  feed  it.  Here's  the  porridge. 
And  there's  milk.  It  was  fresh  this  morning  and  must 
be  fresh  enough  now.  Hang  the  brat,  I'm  sure  it  has 
been  trouble  enough.  Now  you  can  nurse  it,  my  lass, 
and  I  wish  you  joy  of  it,  and  a  gay  good -night!  And 
before  morning  you'll  know  what  it  costs  to  rob  Bess 
Hinkson  of  her  lad!" 

"But  the  child  will  die!"  Henrietta  cried,  rising  to 
her  feet — she  could  stand  in  the  place,  but  not  quite 
erect.  "Stay!  Stay!  At  least  take " 

"What?" 

"  Take  the  child  in !  And  warm  and  feed  it !  Oh,  I 
beg  you  take  it !"  Henrietta  pleaded.  "It  will  die  here ! 
It  is  cold  now !  I  believe  it  is  dying  now !" 

"Dying,  your  grand-dam!"  the  girl  retorted,  scorn- 
fully. "But  if  we  take  it,  will  you  stay?" 

"I  will!"  Henrietta  answered.     "I  will!" 

"So  you  will!  And  the  child,  too!"  Bess  retorted. 
And  she  slammed-to  the  door.  But  again,  while  Hen- 
rietta, appalled  by  her  position,  still  stared  at  the  place, 
the  shutter  fell,  and  Bess  thrust  in  her  dark,  handsome 
face.  "See  here!"  she  said.  "If  you  begin  to  scream 
and  shout,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you,  and  do  you 
remember  that!  I  shall  not  come,  but  I  shall  send 


A  STRANGE  BEDROOM  357 

Saul.  He's  took  a  fancy  to  you,  and  will  find  a  way 
of  silencing  yon,  I'll  bet!"  with  an  unpleasant  smile. 
"So  now  you  know!  And  if  you  want  his  company 
you'll  shout!" 

She  slammed  the  shutter  to  again  with  that,  and  Hen- 
rietta heard  the  bolt  fall  into  its  place. 

The  girl  stood  for  a  moment,  staring  and  benumbed. 
But  presently  her  eyes,  which  at  first  travelled  wildly 
round,  grew  more  sober.  They  fell  on  her  tiny  fellow- 
prisoner,  and,  resting  on  that  white,  unconscious  cheek, 
on  those  baby  hands  clenched  in  some  bygone  paroxysm, 
they  filled  slowly  with  tears. 

"I  will  think  of  the  child  !  I  will  think  of  the  child !" 
she  murmured.  And,  crouching  down,  she  hugged  it  to 
her  with  a  sensation  of  relief,  almost  of  happiness.  "I 
thank  God  I  came!  I  thank  God  I  am  here  to  pro- 
tect it !" 

And  resolutely  averting  her  eyes  from  the  low  roof 
and  oven-like  walls,  that,  when  she  dwelt  too  long  on 
them,  seemed,  like  the  famous  dungeon  of  Poe,  to  con- 
tract about  her  and  choke  her,  she  devoted  herself  to  the 
child;  and  as  she  grew  scared  by  its  prolonged  torpor, 
she  strove  to  rouse  it.  At  first  her  efforts  were  vain. 
But  she  persisted  in  them.  For  the  vision  which  she 
had  had  in  the  cell  at  Kendal — of  the  child  holding  out 
pleading  hands  to  her — rose  to  her  memory.  She  was 
certain  that  at  that  moment  the  child  had  been  crying 
for  aid.  And  surely  not  for  nothing,  not  without  pur- 
pose, had  the  cry  come  to  her  ears  who  now  by  so  strange 
a  fate  was  brought  to  the  boy's  side. 

At  intervals  she  felt  almost  happy  in  this  assurance; 
as  she  pressed  the  child  to  her,  and  watched  by  the  dim, 
yellow  light  its  slow  recovery  from  the  drug.  Her  pros- 


358  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

ent  danger,  her  present  straits,  her  position  in  this  un- 
derground place,  which  would  have  sent  some  mad,  were 
forgotten.  And  the  past  and  the  future  rilled  her 
thoughts;  and  Anthony  Clyne.  Phrases  of  condemna- 
tion and  contempt  which  lie  had  used  to  her  recurred, 
as  she  nursed  his  child;  and  she  rejoiced  to  think  that 
he  must  unsay  them !  The  bruises  which  he  had  in- 
flicted still  discoloured  her  wrist,  and  moved  strange 
feelings  in  her,  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  them.  But  he 
would  repent  of  his  violence  soon  !  Very  soon,  very  soon, 
and  how  completely !  The  thought  was  sweet  to  her ! 

She  was  in  peril,  and  a  week  before  she  had  been  free 
as  air.  But  then  she  had  been  without  any  prospect 
of  reinstatement,  any  hope  of  regaining  the  world's  re- 
spect, any  chance  of  wiping  out  the  consequences  of  her 
mad  and  foolish  act.  Now,  if  she  lived,  and  escaped 
from  this  strait,  he  at  least  must  thank  her,  he  at  least 
must  respect  her.  And  she  was  sure,  yes,  she  dared  to 
tell  herself,  blushing,  that  if  he  respected  her,  he  would 
know  how  to  make  the  world  also  respect  her. 

But  then  again  she  trembled.  For  there  was  a  darker 
side.  She  was  in  the  power  of  these  wretches;  and  the 
worst — the  thought  paled  her  cheek — might  happen! 
She  held  the  child  more  closely  to  her,  and  rocked  it 
to  and  fro  in  earnest  prayer.  The  worst!  Yes,  the 
worst  might  happen.  But  then  again  she  fell  back  on 
the  reflection  that  lie  was  searching  for  them,  and  if 
any  could  find  them  he  would.  He  was  searching  for 
them,  she  was  sure,  as  strenuously,  and  perhaps  with 
more  vengeful  purpose  than  when  he  had  sought  the 
child  alone!  By  this  time,  doubtless,  she  was  missed, 
and  he  had  raised  the  country,  flung  wide  the  alarm, 
set  a  score  moving,  fired  the  dalesmen  from  Bowness 


A  STRANGE  BEDROOM  359 

to  Ambleside.  Yes,  for  certain  they  were  searching  for 
her.  And  they  must  know,  careful  as  she  had  been  to 
hide  her  trail,  that  she  could  not  have  travelled  far ;  and 
the  scope  of  the  search,  therefore,  would  be  narrow,  and 
the  scrutiny  close.  They  could  hardly  fail,  she  thought, 
to  visit  the  farm  in  the  hollow ;  its  sequestered  and  lonely 
position  must  invite  inquiry.  And  if  they  entered,  a 
single  glance  at  the  disordered  kitchen  would  inform  the 
searchers  that  something  was  amiss. 

So  far  Henrietta's  thoughts,  as  she  clasped  the  boy 
to  her  and  strove  to  warm  him  to  life  against  her  own 
body,  ran  in  a  current  chequered  but  more  or  less  hope- 
ful. But  again  the  supposition  would  force  itself  upon 
her — the  men  were  desperate,  and  the  woman  was  moved 
by  a  strange  hatred  of  her.  What  if  they  fled,  and  left 
no  sign?  What  if  they  escaped,  and  left  no  word  of 
her  ?  The  thought  was  torture  !  She  could  not  endure 
it.  She  put  the  child  down,  and  rising  to  her  knees, 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  To  be  buried  here 
underground !  To  die  of  hunger  and  thirst  in  this 
bricked  vault,  as  far  from  hope  and  help,  from  the  voices 
and  eyes  of  men  and  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun,  as  if 
they  had  laid  her  alive  in  her  coffin ! 

Oh,  it  was  horrible !  She  could  not  bear  it ;  she  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  it.  She  sprang,  forgetting  herself, 
to  her  feet,  and  the  blow  which  the  roof  dealt  her, 
though  her  thick  hair  saved  her  from  injury,  intensified 
the  feeling.  She  was  buried  !  Yes,  she  was  buried  alive ! 
The  roof  seemed  to  be  sinking  upon  her.  These  brick 
walls  so  cunningly  arched,  and  narrowing  at  either  end, 
as  the  ends  of  a  coffin  narrow,  were  the  walls  of  her 
tomb !  Those  faint  lines  of  mortar  which  seclusion 
from  the  elements  had  preserved  in  their  freshness,  pres- 


360  A  STRANGE  BEDROOM 

ently  she  would  attack  them  with  her  nails  in  the  frenzy 
of  her  despair.  She  glared  about  her.  The  weight,  the 
mass  of  the  hill  above,  seemed  to  press  upon  her.  The 
air  seemed  to  fail  her.  Was  there  no  way,  no  way  of 
escape  from  this  living  tomb — this  grave  under  the  tons 
and  tons  and  tons  of  rock  and  earth? 

And  then  the  child — perhaps  she  had  put  him  from 
her  roughly,  and  the  movement  had  roused  him — whim- 
pered. And  she  shook  herself  free — thank  God — free 
from  the  hideous  dream  that  had  obsessed  her.  She  re- 
membered that  the  men  were  not  yet  fled,  nor  was  she 
abandoned.  She  was  leaping,  thank  Heaven,  far  above 
the  facts.  In  a  passion  of  relief  she  knelt  beside  the 
child,  and  rained  kisses  on  him,  and  swore  to  him,  as  he 
panted  with  terror  in  her  arms,  that  he  need  not  fear, 
that  he  was  safe  now,  and  she  was  beside  him  to  take 
care  of  him !  And  that  all  would  be  well  if  he  would 
not  cry.  All  would  be  well.  For  she  bethought  herself 
that  the  child  must  not  know  how  things  stood.  Fear 
and  suffering  he  might  know  if  the  worst  came;  but 
not  the  fear,  not  the  mental  torture  which  she  had  known 
for  a  few  moments,  and  which  in  so  short  a  time  had 
driven  her  almost  beside  herself. 

The  boy's  faculties  were  still  benumbed  by  the  hard- 
ships which  he  had  undergone;  perhaps  a  little  by  the 
narcotic  he  had  taken.  And  though  he  had  seen  Hen- 
rietta at  least  a  dozen  times  in  the  old  life,  he  could  not 
remember  her.  Nevertheless  she  contrived  to  satisfy  him 
that  she  was  a  friend,  that  she  meant  him  well,  that 
she  would  protect  him.  And  little  by  little,  in  spite  of 
the  surroundings  which  drew  the  child's  eyes  again  and 
again  in  terror  to  the  dimly-lit  vaulting,  on  which  the 
shadow  of  the  girl's  figure  bulked  large,  his  alarm  sub- 


A  STRANGE  BEDROOM  361 

sided.  His  heart  beat  less  painfully,  and  his  eyes  lost 
in  a  degree  the  strained  and  pitiful  look  which  had  be- 
come habitual.  But  his  little  limbs  still  started  if  the 
light  flickered,  or  the  oil  sputtered;  and  it  was  long 
before,  partly  by  gentle  suasion,  partly  by  caresses,  she 
succeeded  in  inducing  the  child — nauseated  as  he  was 
by  the  drug — to  take  food.  That  done,  though  she  still 
believed  him  to  be  in  a  critical  state,  and  dreadfully 
weak,  she  was  better  satisfied.  And  soon,  soothed  by 
her  firm  embrace  and  confident  words,  her  charge  fell 
into  a  troubled  sleep. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE  SEAECH 

To  return  to  Bishop.  Thrown  off  the  trail  in  the 
wood,  he  pushed  along  the  road  as  far  as  Windermere 
village.  There,  however,  he  could  hear  nothing.  No 
one  of  Henrietta's  figure  and  appearance  had  been  seen 
there.  And  in  the  worst  of  humours,  with  the  world 
as  well  as  with  himself,  he  put  about  and  returned  to 
the  inn.  If  the  girl  had  come  back  during  his  absence, 
it  was  bad  enough ;  he  had  had  his  trouble  for  nothing, 
and  might  have  spared  his  shoe-leather.  Hang  such 
pretty  frailties  for  him!  But  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  had  not  come  back,  the  case  was  worse.  He  had  been 
left  to  watch  her,  and  the  blame  would  fall  on  him. 
ISTadin  would  say  more  than  he  had  said  already  about 
London  officers  and  their  uselessness.  And  if  anything 
happened  to  her !  Bishop  wiped  his  brow  as  he  thought 
of  that,  and  of  his  next  meeting  with  Captain  Clyne. 
It  was  to  be  hoped,  be  devoutly  hoped,  that  nothing  had 
happened  to  the  jade. 

It  wanted  half  an  hour  of  sunset,  when  he  arrived, 
fagged  and  fuming,  at  the  inn;  and  if  his  worst  fears 
were  not  realised,  he  soon  had  ground  to  dread  that  they 
might  be.  Miss  Darner  had  not  returned. 

"I've  no  truck  with  them  rubbishy  radicals,"  Mrs. 
Gilson  added  impersonally,  scratching  her  nose  with  the 
handle  of  a  spoon — a  sign  that  she  was  ill  at  ease.  "But 

3G2 


THE  SEARCH  363 

they're  right  enough  in  one  thing,  and  that  is,  that 
there's  a  lot  of  useless  folk  paid  by  the  country — that'd 
never  get  paid  by  any  one  else !  And  for  brains,  give  me 
a  calf's  head!" 

Bishop  evaded  the  conflict  with  what  dignity  he 
might. 

"The  Captain's  not  come  in?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  he's  come  in,"  the  landlady  answered. 

"Well,"  sullenly,  "the  sooner  I  see  him  the  better, 
then !" 

"You  can't  see  him  now,"  Mrs.  Gilson  replied,  with  a 
glance  at  the  clock.  "He's  sleeping." 

Bishop  stared. 

"Sleeping?"  he  cried.  "And  the  young  lady  not  come 
back?" 

"He  don't  know  that  she  has  so  much  as  gone  out," 
Mrs.  Gilson  answered  with  the  utmost  coolness.  "And 
what's  more,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  him.  He  came  in 
looking  not  fit  to  cross  a  room,  my  man,  let  alone  cross 
a  horse !  And  when  I  went  to  take  him  a  dish  of  tea 
I  found  him  asleep  in  his  chair.  And  you  may  take  it 
from  me,  if  he's  not  left  to  have  out  his  sleep,  now  it's 
come,  he'll  be  no  more  use  to  you,  six  hours  from  this, 
than  a  corpse !" 

"Still,  ma'am,"  Bishop  objected,  "the  Captain  won't 
be  best  pleased " 

"Please  a  flatiron!"  Mrs.  Gilson  retorted.  "Best 
served's  best  pleased,  my  lad,  and  that  you'll  learn  some 
day."  And  then  suddenly  taking  the  offensive,  "For  the 
matter  of  that,  what  do  you  want  with  him  ?"  she  con- 
tinued. "Ain't  you  grown  men?  If  Joe  Nadin  and 
you  and  half  a  dozen  redbreasts  can't  find  one  silly  girl 
in  an  open  countryside,  don't  talk  to  me  of  your  gangs ! 


364  THE  SEARCH 

And  your  felonies!  And  the  fine  things  you  do  in 
London!" 

"But  in  London " 

"Ay,  London  Bridge  was  made  for  fools  to  go  under !" 
Mrs.  Gilson  answered,  with  meaning.  "It  don't  stand 
for  nothing." 

Bishop  tapped  his  top-boot  gloomily. 

"She  may  come  in  any  minute,"  he  said.  "There's 
that." 

"She  may,  or  she  mayn't,"  Mrs.  Gilson  answered, 
with  another  look  at  the  clock. 

"She's  not  been  gone  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half." 

"Nor  the  mouse  my  cat  caught  this  afternoon,"  the 
landlady  retorted.  "But  you'll  not  find  it  easily,  my 
lad,  nor  know  it  when  you  find  it." 

He  had  no  reply  to  make  to  that,  but  he  carried  his 
eye  again  to  the  clock.  He  was  very  uncomfortable — 
very  uncomfortable.  And  yet  he  hardly  knew  what  to 
do  or  where  to  look.  In  the  meantime  the  girl's  disap- 
pearance was  becoming  known,  and  caused,  indoors  and 
out,  a  thrill  of  excitement.  Another  abduction,  another 
disappearance  !  And  at  their  doors,  on  their  thresholds, 
under  their  noses  !  Some  heard  the  report  with  indigna- 
tion, and  two  in  the  house  heard  it  with  remorse ;  many 
with  pity.  But  in  the  breasts  of  most  the  feeling  was 
not  wholly  painful.  The  new  mystery  revived  and 
doubled  the  old;  and  blew  to  a  white  heat  the  embers 
of  interest  which  were  beginning  to  grow  cold.  In  the 
teeth  of  the  nipping  air — and  sunset  is  often  the  coldest 
hour  of  the  twenty-four — groups  gathered  in  the  yard 
and  before  the  house.  And  while  a  man  here  and  there 
winked  at  his  neighbour  and  hinted  that  the  young 
madam  had  slunk  back  to  the  lover  from  whom  she  had 


THE  SEARCH  365 

been  parted,  the  common  view  was  that  mischief  was 
afoot  and  something  strong  should  be  done. 

Meanwhile  uncertainty — and  in  a  small  degree  the 
absence  of  Captain  Clyne  and  Nadin — paralysed  action. 
At  five,  Bishop  sent  out  three  or  four  of  his  dependants ; 
one  to  watch  the  boat-landing,  one  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
entrance  to  Troutbeck  village,  and  others  to  bid  the  con- 
stables at  Ambleside  and  Bowness  be  on  the  watch.  But 
as  long  as  the  young  lady's  return  seemed  possible — 
and  some  still  thought  the  whole  a  storm  in  a  tea-cup — 
men  not  unnaturally  shrank  from  taking  the  lead.  Nor 
until  the  man  who  took  all  the  blame  to  himself  inter- 
posed, was  any  real  step  taken. 

It  was  nearly  six  when  Bishop,  talking  with  his 
friends  in  the  passage,  found  himself  confronted  by  the 
chaplain.  Mr.  Sutton  was  in  a  state  of  great  and  evident 
agitation.  There  were  red  spots  on  his  cheek-bones,  his 
pinched  features  were  bedewed  with  perspiration,  his 
eyes  were  bright.  And  he  who  usually  shunned  en- 
counter with  coarser  wits,  now  singled  out  the  officer  in 
the  midst  of  his  fellows. 

"Are  you  going  to  do  nothing,"  he  cried,  "except 
drink?" 

Bishop  stared. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Sutton,"  he  said,  slowly  and  with  dig- 
nity, "you  must  not  forget " 

"Except  drink?"  the  chaplain  repeated,  without  com- 
promise. And  taking  Bishop's  glass,  which  stood  half- 
filled  on  the  window-seat  beside  him,  he  flung  its  con- 
tents through  the  doorway.  "Do  your  duty,  sir!"  he 
continued  firmly.  "Do  your  duty!  You  were  here  to 
see  that  the  lady  did  not  leave  the  house  alone.  And 
you  permitted  her  to  go." 


36G  THE   SEARCH 

"And  what  part,"  Bishop  answered,  with  a  sneer,  "did 
your  reverence  play,  if  you  please?"  He  was  a  sober 
man  for  those  times,  and  the  taunt  was  not  a  fair  one. 

"A  poor  part,"  the  chaplain  answered.  "A  mean 
one !  But  now — I  ask  only  to  act.  Say  what  I  shall  do, 
and  if  it  be  only  by  my  example  I  may  effect  some- 
thing." 

"Ay,  you  may!"  Bishop  returned.  "And  I'll  find 
your  reverence  work  fast  enough.  Do  you  go  and  tell 
Captain  Clyne  the  lady's  gone.  It's  a  task  I've  no  stom- 
ach for  myself,"  with  a  grin;  "and  your  reverence  is  the 
very  man  for  it." 

Mr.  Sutton  winced. 

"I  will  do  even  that,"  he  said,  "if  you  will  no  longer 
lose  time." 

"But  she  may  return  any  minute." 

"She  will  not!"  Mr.  Sutton  retorted,  with  anger. 
"She  will  not !  God  forgive  us  for  letting  her  go !  If  I 
failed  in  my  duty,  sir,  do  you  do  yours!  Do  you  do 
yours !" 

And  such  power  does  enthusiasm  give  a  man,  that  he 
who  these  many  days  had  seemed  to  the  inn  a  poor,  timid 
creature,  slinking  in  and  out  as  privately  as  possible, 
now  shamed  all  and  kindled  all. 

;  "By  jingo,  I  will,  your  reverence!"  Bishop  cried, 
catching  the  flame.  "I  will !"  he  repeated  heartily.  And 
he  turned  about  and  began  to  give  orders  with  energy. 

Fortunately  Nadin  arrived  at  that  moment ;  and  with 
his  burly  form  and  broad  Lancashire  accent,  he  seemed 
to  bring  with  him  the  vigour  of  ten.  In  three  minutes 
he  apprehended  the  facts,  pooh-poohed  the  notion  that 
the  girl  would  return,  and  with  a  good  round  oath 
"dommed  them  Jacobins,"  to  give  his  accent  for  once, 


IN    TEN    MINUTES    THE    ROAD    TWINKLED    WITH    LIGHTS    . 


THE  SEARCH  367 

"for  the  graidliest  roogs  and  the  roofest  devils  i'  all 
Lancashire — and  that's  saying  mooch !  But  we  mun 
ha'  them  hanged  now,"  he  continued,  striding  to  and  fro 
in  his  long,  rough  horseman's  coat.  "We  mun  ha'  them 
hanged  !  We'll  larn  them  !" 

He  formed  parties  and  assigned  roads  and  brought  all 
into  order.  The  first  necessity  was  to  visit  every  house 
within  a  mile  of  the  inn  on  the  Windermere  side;  and 
this  was  taken  in  hand  at  once.  In  ten  minutes  the  road 
twinkled  with  lights,  and  the  frosty  ground  rang  under 
the  tread  of  ironshod  boots.  It  was  ascertained  that  no 
boat  had  crossed  the  lake  that  afternoon ;  and  this  so  far 
narrowed  the  area  to  be  searched,  that  the  men  were  in 
a  high  state  of  excitement,  and  those  who  carried  fire- 
arms looked  closely  to  their  priming. 

"  'Tis  a  pity  it's  neet!"  said  Nadin.  "But  we  mun 
ha'  them,  we  mun  ha'  them,  afoor  long !" 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Sutton  had  braced  himself  to  the  task 
which  he  had  undertaken.  Challenged- by  Bishop,  he  had 
been  anxious  to  go  at  once  to  Clyne's  room  and  tell  him ; 
that  the  Captain  might  go  with  the  searchers  if  he 
pleased.  But  he  had  not  mounted  three  steps  before 
Mrs.  Gilson  was  at  his  heels,  bidding  him,  in  her  most 
peremptory  manner,  to  "let  his  honour  be  for  another 
hour.  What  can  he  do?"  she  urged.  "He's  but  one 
more,  and  now  the  lads  are  roused,  they'll  do  all  he  can 
do !  Let  him  be,  let  him  be,  man,"  she  continued.  "Or 
if  you  must,  watch  him  till  he  wakes,  and  then  tell  him." 

"It  will  be  worse  then,"  the  chaplain  said. 

"But  he'll  be  better !"  she  retorted.  "Do  you  be  bid- 
den by  me.  The  man  wasn't  fit  to  carry  his  meat  to  his 
mouth  when  he  went  upstairs.  But  let  him  be  until  he 
has  had  his  sleep  out  and  he'll  be  another  man." 


3G8  THE   SEARCH 

And  Mr.  Sutton  let  himself  be  bidden.  But  he  was 
right.  Every  minute  which  passed  made  the  task  before 
him  more  difficult.  When  at  last  Captain  Clyne  awoke, 
a  few  minutes  after  eight  o'clock,  and  startled,  brought 
his  scattered  senses  to  a  focus,  he  saw  sitting  opposite 
him  a  man  who  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  shivered. 

Clyne  rose. 

"Man,  man!"  he  said.  "What  is  it?  Have  you  bad 
news  ?" 

But  the  chaplain  could  not  speak.  He  could  only  shake 
his  head. 

"They  have  not — not  found " 

Clyne  could  not  finish  the  sentence.  He  turned  away, 
and  with  a  trembling  hand  snuffed  a  candle — that  his 
face  might  be  hidden. 

The  chaplain  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no!"  he  said.    "No!" 

"But  it  is — it's  bad  news?" 

"Yes.    She's — she's  gone!    She's  disappeared !" 

Clyne  dropped  the  snuffers  on  the  table. 

"  Gone  ?"  he  muttered.    "  Who  ?    Miss  Darner  ?" 

"Yes.  She  left  the  house  this  afternoon,  and  has  not 
returned.  It  was  my  fault!  My  fault!"  poor  Mr.  Sut- 
ton continued,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  abasement.  And 
with  his  face  hidden  he  bowed  himself  to  and  fro  like  a 
man  in  pain.  "  They  asked  me  to  follow  her,  and  I  would 
not!  I  would  not — out  of  pride!" 

"And  she  has  not  returned?"  Clyne  asked,  in  an  odd 
tone. 

"She  has  not  returned — God  forgive  me !" 

Clyne  stared  at  the  flame  of  the  nearest  candle.  But 
he  saw,  not  the  flame,  but  Henrietta ;  as  he  had  seen  her 
the  morning  he  turned  his  back  on  her,  and  left  her 


THE  SEARCH  369 

standing  alone  on  the  road  above  the  lake.  Her  slender 
figure  under  the  falling  autumn  leaves  rose  before  him ; 
and  he  knew  that  he  would  never  forgive  himself.  By 
some  twist  of  the  mind  her  fate  seemed  the  direct  out- 
come of  that  moment,  of  that  desertion,  of  that  cruel, 
that  heartless  abandonment.  The  after-events,  save  so 
far  as  they  proved  her  more  sinned  against  than  sinning, 
vanished.  He  had  been  her  sole  dependence,  her  one 
protector,  the  only  being  to  whom  she  could  turn.  And 
he  had  abandoned  her  heartlessly;  and  this — this  un- 
known and  dreadful  fate — was  the  result.  Her  face  rose 
before  him,  now  smiling  and  defiant,  now  pale  and 
drawn ;  and  the  piled-up  glory  of  her  hair.  And  he  re- 
membered— too  late,  alas,  too  late — that  she  had  been  of 
his  blood  and  his  kin;  and  that  he  had  first  neglected 
her,  and  later  when  his  mistake  bred  its  natural  result 
in  her  act  of  folly,  he  had  deserted  and  punished  her. 

Eemorse  is  the  very  shirt  of  Nessus.  It  is  of  all  men- 
tal pains  the  worst.  It  seizes  upon  the  whole  mind;  it 
shuts  out  every  prospect.  It  cries  into  the  ear  with  every 
slow  tick  of  the  clock,  the  truth  that  that  which  had  once 
been  so  easy  can  never  be  done  now !  That  reparation, 
that  kind  word,  that  act  of  care,  of  thoughtfulness,  of 
pardon — never,  never  now !  And  once  so  easy !  So  easy ! 

For  he  knew  now  that  he  had  loved  the  girl ;  and  that 
he  had  thrown  away  that  which  might  have  been  the 
happiness  of  his  life.  He  knew  now  that  only  pride  had 
blinded  him,  giving  the  name  of  pity  to  that  which  was 
love — or  so  near  to  love  that  it  was  impossible  to  say 
where  one  ended  and  the  other  began.  He  thought  of 
her  courage  and  her  pride ;  and  then  of  the  womanliness 
that,  responding  to  the  first  touch  of  gentleness  on  his 
side,  had  wept  for  his  child.  And  how  he  had  wronged 


370  THE   SEARCH 

her  from  the  first  days  of  slighting  courtship !  how  he 
had  misunderstood  her,  and  then  mistrusted  and  ma- 
ligned her — he,  the  only  one  to  whom  she  could  turn  for 
help,  or  whom  she  could  trust  in  a  land  of  strangers — 
until  it  had  come  to  this !  It  had  come  to  this. 

Oh,  his  poor  girl !    His  poor  girl ! 

A  groan,  bitter  and  irrepressible,  broke  from  him.  The 
man  stood  stripped  of  the  trappings  of  prejudice ;  he  saw 
himself  as  he  was,  and  the  girl  as  she  was,  a  creature  of 
youth  and  spirit  and  impulse.  And  he  was  ashamed  to 
the  depths  of  Ms  soul. 

At  last,  "What  time  did  she  go  out?"  he  muttered. 

The  chaplain  roused  himself  with  a  shiver  and  told 
him. 

"Then  she  has  been  missing  five  hours?"  There  was 
a  sudden  hardening  in  his  tone.  "You  have  done  some- 
thing, I  suppose?  Tell  me,  man,  that  you  have  done 
something !" 

The  chaplain  told  him  what  was  being  done.  And  the 
mere  statement  gave  comfort.  Hearing  that  Mrs.  Gilson 
had  been  the  last  to  speak  to  her,  Clyde  said  he  would  see 
the  landlady.  And  the  two  went  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  passage  a  figure  rose  before  them  and  fled  with 
a  kind  of  bleating  cry.  It  was  Modest  Ann,  who  had 
been  sitting  in  the  dark  with  her  apron  over  her  head. 
She  was  gone  before  they  were  sure  who  it  was.  And 
they  thought  nothing  of  the  incident,  if  they  noticed  it. 

Downstairs  they  found  no  news  and  no  comfort;  but 
much  coming  and  going.  For  presently  the  first  party 
returned  from  its  quest,  and  finding  that  nothing  had 
been  discovered,  set  forth  again  in  a  new  direction.  And 
by-and-by  another  returned,  and  standing  ate  something, 
and  went  out  again,  reinforced  by  Clyne  himself.  And 


THE  SEARCH  371 

so  began  a  night  of  which  the  memory  endured  in  the  inn 
for  a  generation.  Few  slept,  and  those  in  chairs,  ready 
to  start  up  at  the  first  alarm.  The  tap  ran  free  for  all ; 
and  in  the  coffee-room  the  table  was  set  and  set  again. 
The  Sunday's  joints — for  the  next  day  was  Sunday — 
were  cooked  and  cold,  and  half-eaten  before  the  morn- 
ing broke;  and  before  breakfast  the  larder  of  the  Saluta- 
tion at  Ambleside  was  laid  under  contribution.  At  in- 
tervals, those  who  dozed  were  aware  of  Nadin's  tall, 
bulky  presence  as  he  entered  shaking  the  rime  from  his 
long  horseman's  coat  and  calling  for  brandy;  or  of 
Bishop,  who  went  and  came  all  night,  but  in  a  frame  of 
mind  so  humble  and  downcast  that  men  scarcely  knew 
him.  And  now  and  again  a  fresh  band  of  searchers 
tramped  in  one  behind  the  other,  passed  the  news  by  a 
single  shake  of  the  head,  and  crowding  to  the  table  ate 
and  drank  before  they  turned  to  again — to  visit  a  more 
distant,  and  yet  a  more  distant  part. 

Even  from  the  mind  of  the  father,  the  boy's  loss 
seemed  partly  effaced  by  this  later  calamity.  The  mys- 
tery was  so  much  the  deeper:  the  riddle  the  more  per- 
plexing. The  girl  had  gone  out  on  foot  in  the  full  light 
of  a  clear  afternoon ;  and  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of 
the  place  to  which  they  had  traced  the  boy,  she  had  van- 
ished as  if  she  had  never  been.  Clyne  knew  from  her 
own  lips  that  Walterson  was  somewhere  within  reach. 
But  this  did  not  help  much,  since  no  one  could  hit  on 
the  place.  And  various  were  the  suggestions,  and  many 
and  strange  the  solutions  proposed.  Every  poacher  and 
every  ne'er-do-well  was  visited  and  examined,  every  house 
was  canvassed,  every  man  who  had  ever  said  aught  that 
could  be  held  to  savour  of  radical  doctrine,  was  consid- 
ered. As  the  search  spread  to  a  wider  and  yet  wider 


372  THE  SEARCH 

area,  the  alarm  went  with  it,  and  new  helpers  arrived, 
men  on  horseback  and  men  on  foot.  And  all  through  the 
long  winter's  night  the  house  hummed ;  and  the  lights  of 
the  inn  shone  on  the  water  as  brightly  and  persistently 
as  the  stars  that  in  the  solemn  firmament  wheeled  and 
marched. 

But  lamps  and  stars  were  alike  extinguished,  and  the 
late  dawn  was  filtering  through  the  casements  on  jaded 
faces  and  pale  looks,  when  the  first  gleam  of  encourage- 
ment showed  itself.  Clyne  had  been  out  for  some  hours, 
and  on  his  return  had  paused  at  the  door  of  the  snug- 
gery to  swallow  the  cup  of  hot  coffee,  which  the  landlady 
pressed  upon  him.  Nadin  was  still  out,  but  Bishop  was 
there  and  the  chaplain,  and  two  or  three  yeomen  and 
peasants.  In  all  hearts  hope  had  by  this  time  given  way 
to  dejection ;  and  dejection  was  fast  yielding  to  despair. 
The  party  stood,  here  and  there,  for  the  most  part  silent, 
or  dropped  now  and  again  a  despondent  word. 

Suddenly  Modest  Ann  appeared  among  them,  with 
her  head  shrouded  in  her  apron.  And,  "I  can't  bear  it! 
I  can't  bear  it!"  the  woman  cried  hysterically.  "I  must 
speak !" 

A  thrill  of  amazement  ran  through  the  group.  They 
straightened  themselves. 

"If  you  know  anything,  speak  by  all  means!"  Clyne 
said,  for  surprise  tied  Mrs.  Gilson's  tongue.  "Do  you 
know  where  the  lady  is?" 

"No!  no!" 

"Did  she  tell  you  anything?" 

"Nothing!  nothing!"  the  woman  answered,  sobbing 
wildly,  and  still  holding  the  apron  drawn  tightly  over 
her  face.  "  Missus,  don't  kill  me !  She  told  me  naught ! 
Naught!  But " 


THE  SEARCH  373 

"Well— what?    What?" 

"There  was  a  letter  I  gave  her  some  time  ago — before 
— oh,  dear ! — before  the  rumpus  was,  and  she  was  sent  to 
Kendall  And  I'm  thinking,"  sob,  sob,  "you'd  maybe 
know  something  from  the  person  who  gave  it  me." 

"That's  it,"  said  Bishop  coolly.  "You're  a  sensible 
woman.  Who  was  it  ?" 

"That  girl — of  HiDkson's,"  she  sobbed. 

"Bess  Hinkson !"  Mrs.  Gilson  ejaculated. 

"Ay,  sure!  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  Bess  said  that  she 
had  it  from  a  man  on  the  road." 

"And  that  may  be  so,  or  it  may  not,"  Bishop 
answered,  with  quiet  dryness.  He  was  in  his  element 
again.  And  then  in  a  lower  tone,  "We're  on  it  now," 
he  muttered,  "or  I  am  mistaken.  I've  seen  the 
young  lady  near  Hinkson's  once  or  twice.  And  it 
was  near  there  I  lost  her.  The  house  has  been  visited, 
of  course;  it  was  one  of  the  first  visited.  But  we'd 
no  suspicion  then,  and  now  we  have.  Which  makes  a 
difference." 

"You're  going  there?" 

"Straight,  sir,  without  the  loss  of  a  minute  !" 

dyne's  eyes  sparkled.  And  tired  as  they  were,  the 
men  answered  to  the  call.  Ten  minutes  before,  they  had 
crawled  in,  the  picture  of  fatigue.  Now,  as  they  crossed 
the  pastures  above  the  inn,  and  plunged  into  the  little 
wood  in  which  Henrietta  had  baffled  Bishop,  they 
clutched  their  cudgels  with  as  much  energy  as  if  the 
chase  were  but  opening.  It  mattered  not  that  some  wore 
the  high-collared  coats  of  the  day,  and  two  waistcoats 
under  them,  and  had  watches  in  their  fobs;  and  that 
others  tramped  in  smock  frocks  drawn  over  their  fustian 
shorts.  The  same  indignation  armed  all,  great  and 


374  THE   SEARCH 

small,  rich  and  poor;  and  in  a  wonderfully  short  space 
of  time  they  were  at  the  gate  of  Starvecrow  Farm. 

The  house  that,  viewed  at  its  best,  had  a  bald  and 
melancholy  aspect,  wore  a  villainous  look  now — perched 
up  there  in  bare,  lowering  ugliness,  with  its  blind  gable 
squinting  through  the  ragged  fir-trees. 

Bishop  left  a  man  in  the  road,  and  sent  two  to  the  rear 
of  the  crazy,  ruinous  outbuildings  which  clung  to  the 
slope.  With  Clyne  and  the  other  three  he  passed  round 
the  corner  of  the  house,  stepped  to  the  door  and  knocked. 
The  sun's  first  rays  were  striking  the  higher  hills,  west- 
ward of  the  lake,  as  the  party,  with  stern  faces,  awaited 
the  answer.  But  the  lake,  with  its  holms,  and  the  valley 
and  all  the  lower  spurs,  lay  grey  and  still  and  dreary  in 
the  grip  of  cold.  The  note  of  melancholy  went  to  the 
heart  of  one  as  he  looked,  and  filled  it  with  remorse. 

"Too  late,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "too  late  !" 

For  a  time  no  one  came.  And  Bishop  knocked  again, 
and  more  imperiously;  first  sending  a  man  to  the  lower 
end  of  the  ragged  garden  to  be  on  the  look-out.  He 
knocked  a  third  time.  At  last  a  shuffling  of  feet  was 
heard  approaching  the  door,  and  a  moment  later  old 
Hinkson  opened  it.  He  looked,  as  he  stood  blinking  in 
the  daylight,  more  frowsy  and  unkempt  and  to  be  avoid- 
ed than  usual.  But — they  noted  with  disappointment 
that  the  door  was  neither  locked  nor  bolted ;  so  that  had 
they  thought  of  it  they  might  have  entered  at  will ! 

"What  is't?"  he  drawled,  peering  at  them.  "Why  did 
you  na'  come  in  ?" 

Bishop  pushed  in  without  a  word.  The  others  fol- 
lowed. A  glance  sufficed  to  discover  all  that  the  kitchen 
contained;  and  Bishop,  deaf  to  the  old  man's  remon- 
strances, led  the  way  straight  up  the  dark,  close  stair- 


THE  SEARCH  375 

case.  But  though  they  explored  without  ceremony  all 
the  rooms  above,  and  knocked,  and  called,  and  sounded, 
and  listened,  they  stumbled  down  again,  baffled. 

"Where's  your  daughter?"  Bishop  asked  sternly. 

"She  was  here  ten  minutes  agone,"  the  old  man  an- 
swered. Perhaps  because  the  day  was  young  he  showed 
rather  more  sense  than  usual.  But  his  eyes  were  full  of 
spite. 

"Here,  was  she?" 

-Ay." 

"And  where's  she  now?" 

"She's  gone  to  t'  doctor's.  She  be  nursing  there. 
They've  no  lass." 

"Nursing!   Who's  she  nursing?"  incredulously. 

The  old  man  grinned  at  the  ignorance  of  the  question. 

"  The  wumman  and  the  babby,"  he  said. 

"At  Tyson's?" 

"Ay,  ay." 

"The  house  in  the  hollow?" 

"That  be  it." 

While  they  were  talking  thus,  others  had  searched  the 
crazy  outhouses,  but  to  no  better  purpose.  And  presently 
they  all  assembled  in  the  road  outside  the  gate. 

"Where's  your  dog,  old  lad?"  asked  one  of  the  dales- 
men. 

The  miser  had  shuffled  after  them,  holding  out  his 
hand  and  begging  of  them. 

"At  the  doctor's,"  he  answered.  "Her  be  fearsome 
and  begged  it.  Ye'll  give  an  old  man  something?"  he 
added,  whining.  "Ye'll  give  something?" 

"Off!  Off  you  go,  my  lad !"  Bishop  cried.  "We've 
done  with  you.  If  you're  not  a  rascal  'tis  hard  on  you, 
for  vou  look  one!"  And  when  the  old  skinflint  had 


376  THE  SEARCH 

crawled  back  under  the  fir-trees,  "Worst  is,  sir,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  grave  face,  "it's  all  true.  Tyson's  away  in 
the  north — with  a  brother  or  something  of  that  kind — so 
I  hear.  And  his  missus  had  a  baby  this  ten  days  gone  or 
more.  He's  a  rough  tyke,  but  he's  above  this  sort  of 
thing,  I  take  it.  Still,  we'll  go  and  question  the  girl. 
We  may  get  something  from  her." 

And  they  trooped  off  along  the  road  in  twos  and 
threes,  and  turning  the  corner  saw  Tyson's  house,  below 
them — so  far  below  them  that  it  had,  as  always,  the  look 
of  a  toy  house  on  a  toy  meadow  at  the  bottom  of  a  green 
bowl.  Below  the  house  the  little  rivulet  that  rose  be- 
side it  bisected  the  meadow,  until  at  the  end  of  the 
open  it  lost  itself  in  the  narrow  wooded  gorge,  through 
which  it  sprang  in  unseen  waterfalls  to  join  the  lake 
below. 

They  descended  the  slope  to  the  house ;  sharp-eyed  but 
saying  little.  A  trifle  to  one  side  of  the  door,  under  a 
window,  a  dog  was  kenneled.  It  leapt  out  barking;  but 
seeing  so  many  persons  it  slunk  in  again  and  lay  growl- 
ing.. A  moment  and  the  door  was  opened  and  Bess 
showed  herself.  She  looked  astonished,  but  not  in  any 
way  frightened. 

"Eh,  masters!"  she  said.  "What  is  it?  Are  you 
come  after  the  young  lady  again  ?" 

"Ay,"  Bishop  answered.  "We  are.  We  want  to  know 
where  you  got  the  letter  you  gave  Ann  at  the  inn — to 
give  to  her?" 

Perhaps  Bess  looked  for  the  question  and  was  pre- 
pared. At  any  rate,  she  betrayed  no  sign  of  confusion. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  can  tell  you  what  he  was  like  that 
gave  it  me." 

"A  man  gave  it  you?" 


THE  SEARCH  377 

"Ay,  and  a  shilling.  And,"  smiling  broadly,  "he'd 
have  given  me  something  else  if  I'd  let  him." 

"A  kiss,  I  bet !"  said  Bishop. 

"Ay,  it  was.    But  I  said  that'd  be  another  shilling." 

Clyne  groaned. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "come  to  the  point.  Time's 
everything." 

Bishop  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Where  did  you  see  him,  my  girl?"  he  asked. 

"By  the  gate  of  the  coppice  as  I  was  bringing  the 
milk,"  she  answered  frankly.  "  'I'm  her  Joe,'  he  said. 
'And  if  you'll  hand  her  this  and  keep  mum,  here's  a 
shilling  for  you.'  And " 

"Very  good,"  said  Bishop.    "And  what  was  he  like?" 

With  much  cunning  she  described  Walterson,  and 
Bishop  acknowledged  the  likeness.  "It's  our  man!"  he 
said,  slapping  his  boot  with  his  loaded  whip.  "And  now, 
my  dear,  which  way  did  he  go  ?" 

But  she  explained  that  she  had  met  him  by  the  gate — 
he  was  a  stranger — and  she  had  left  him  in  the  same 
place. 

"And  you  can't  say  which  way  he  went?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Nor  yet  which  way  he  came. 
I  looked  back  to  see,  to  tell  the  truth,"  frankly.  "But 
he  had  not  moved,  and  he  did  not  move  until  I  was  out 
of  sight.  And  I  never  saw  him  again.  The  boy  had  not 
been  stolen  then,"  she  continued,  "and  I  thought  little 
of  it." 

"You  should  have  told,"  Bishop  answered,  eyeing  her 
severely.  "Another  time,  my  lass,  you'll  get  into  trou- 
ble." And  then  suddenly,  "Here,  can  we  come  in?" 

She  threw  the  door  wide  with  a  movement  that  dis- 
armed suspicion. 


378  THE  SEARCH 

"To  be  sure,"  she  said.  "And  welcome,  so  as  you 
don't  make  a  noise  to  waken  the  mistress." 

But  when  they  stood  in  the  kitchen  it  wore  an  aspect 
so  neat  and  orderly  that  they  were  ashamed  of  their  sus- 
picions. The  fire  burned  cheerfully  on  the  wide  hearth, 
and  a  wooden  tray  set  roughly,  but  cleanly,  stood  on  the 
corner  of  the  long,  polished  table.  The  door  of  the 
shady  dairy  stood  open,  and  afforded  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  leaden  milk-pans,  and  the  row  of  shining  pails. 

"The  mistress  is  just  overhead,"  she  said.  "So  you'll 
not  make  much  noise,  if  you  please." 

"We'll  make  none,"  said  Bishop.  "We've  learned  what 
we  want."  And  he  turned  to  go  out. 

All  had  not  entered.  Those  who  had,  nodded,  turned 
with  gloomy  faces,  and  followed  him  out.  The  dog, 
lurking  at  the  back  of  its  kennel,  was  still  growling. 

"I'd  be  af eared  to  sleep  here  without  him,"  Bess  volun- 
teered. 

"Ay,  ay." 

"He's  better  'n  two  men." 

"Ay?" 

They  looked  at  the  dog,  and  some  one  bade  her  good- 
day.  And  one  by  one  the  little  troop  turned  and  trailed 
despondently  from  the  house,  Clyne  with  his  chin  sunk 
on  his  breast,  Bishop  in  a  brown  study,  the  other  men 
staring  blankly  before  them.  Half-way  up  the  ascent 
to  the  road  Clyne  stopped  and  looked  back.  His  face 
was  troubled. 

"I  thought "  he  began.  And  then  he  stopped  and 

listened,  frowning. 

"What?" 

"I  don't  know."  He  looked  up.  "You  didn't  hear 
anything  ?" 


THE  SEARCH  379 

Bishop  and  the  men  said  that  they  had  not  heard  any- 
thing. They  listened.  They  all  listened.  And  all  said 
that  they  heard  nothing. 

"It  was  fancy,  I  suppose,"  Clyne  muttered,  passing 
his  hand  over  his  eyes.  And  he  shook  his  head  as  if  to 
shake  off  some  painful  impression. 

But  before  he  reached  the  road  he  paused  once  again 
and  listened.  And  his  face  was  haggard  and  lined  with 
trouble. 

It  occurred  to  no  one  that  Bess  had  been  too  civil.  To 
no  one.  For  shrewd  Mrs.  Gilson  was  not  with  them. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII 
THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

HENRIETTA  crouched  beside  the  lamp,  lulling  the  child 
from  time  to  time  with  a  murmured  word.  She  held  the 
boy,  whom  she  had  come  to  save,  tight  in  her  arms ;  and 
the  thought  that  she  held  him  was  bliss  to  her,  though 
poisoned  bliss.  Whatever  happened  he  would  learn  that 
she  had  reached  the  child.  He  would  know — even  if  the 
worst  came — what  she  had  done  for  him.  But  the  worst 
must  not  come.  Were  she  once  in  the  open  under  the 
stars,  how  quickly  could  she  flee  down  the  road  with  this 
light  burden  in  her  arms — down  the  road  until  she  saw 
the  star-sprinkled  lake  spread  below  her !  In  twenty 
minutes,  were  she  outside,  she  might  be  safe.  In  twenty 
minutes,  only  twenty  minutes,  she  might  place  the  child 
in  his  arms,  she  might  read  the  joy  in  his  eyes,  and  hear 
words — ah,  so  unlike  those  which  she  had  heard  from 
him! 

There  were  only  two  doors  between  herself  and  free- 
dom. Her  heart  beat  at  the  thought.  In  twenty  minutes 
how  different  it  might  be  with  her — in  twenty  minutes, 
were  she  at  liberty ! 

She  must  wait  until  the  child  was  sound  asleep.  Then 
when  she  could  lay  him  down  she  would  examine  the 
place.  The  purity  of  the  air  proved  that  there  was  either 
a  secret  inlet  for  the  purpose  of  ventilation,  or  that  the 
door  which  shut  off  their  prison  from  the  well-head  fitted 

380 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  381 

ill  and  loosely.  In  the  latter  case  it  was  possible  that  her 
strength  might  avail  to  force  the  door  and  make  escape 
possible.  They  might  not  have  given  her  credit  for  the 
vigour  which  she  felt  that  she  had  it  in  her  to  show  if 
the  opportunity  offered  itself. 

In  the  meantime  she  scrutinised,  as  she  sat,  every  foot 
of  the  walls,  without  discovering  anything  to  encourage 
hope  or  point  to  a  second  exit.  The  light  of  the  dim 
lamp  revealed  only  smooth  courses  of  bricks,  so  near  her 
eyes,  so  low  upon  her  head,  so  bewildering  in  their  regu- 
larity and  number,  that  they  appalled  her  the  more  the 
longer  she  gazed  on  them.  It  was  to  seek  relief  that  she 
rose  at  last,  and  laying  the  sleeping  child  aside,  went  to 
the  door  and  examined  it. 

Alas!  it  presented  to  the  eye  only  solid  wood,  over- 
lapping the  aperture  which  it  covered,  and  revealing  in 
consequence  neither  hinges  nor  fastening.  She  set  her 
shoulder  against  it,  and  thrust  with  all  her  might.  But 
it  neither  bent  nor  moved,  and  in  despair  she  left  it,  and 
stooping  low  worked  her  way  round  the  walls.  Her 
closest  scrutiny  revealed  nothing;  not  a  slit  as  wide  as 
her  slenderest  finger,  not  a  peg,  nor  a  boss,  nor  anything 
that  promised  exit.  She  returned  to  the  door,  and  made 
another  and  more  desperate  attempt  to  burst  it.  But 
her  strength  was  unequal  to  the  task,  and  to  avoid  a  re- 
turn of  the  old  panic,  which  threatened  to  overcome  her, 
she  dropped  down  beside  the  child,  and  took  him  again 
in  her  arms,  feeling  that  in  the  appeal  which  the  boy's 
helplessness  made  to  her  she  had  her  best  shield  against 
such  terrors. 

The  next  moment,  with  a  flicker  or  two,  the  light  went 
out.  She  was  in  complete  darkness. 

She  fought  with  herself  and  with  the  impulse  to 


382  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

shriek;  and  she  conquered.  She  drew  a  deep  breath  as 
she  sat,  and  with  the  unconscious  child  in  her  arms, 
stared  motionless  before  her. 

"They  will  come  back,"  she  murmured  steadfastly; 
"they  will  come  back !  They  will  come  back !  And  in 
the  meantime  I  must  be  brave  for  the  child's  sake.  I 
have  only  to  wait !  And  they  will  come  back  !" 

Nevertheless,  it  was  hard  to  wait.  It  was  hard  not  to 
let  her  thoughts  run  on  the  things  which  might  prevent 
their  return.  They  might  be  put  to  flight,  they  might  be 
discovered  and  killed,  they  might  be  taken  and  refuse  to 
say  where  she  was.  And  then  ?  Then  ? 

But  for  the  child's  sake  she  must  not,  she  would  not, 
think  of  that.  She  must  dwell,  instead,  on  the  shortness 
of  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  they  left  her.  She 
could  not  guess  what  the  hour  was,  but  she  judged  that 
it  was  something  after  midnight  now,  and  that  half  of 
the  dark  hours  were  gone.  Even  so,  she  had  long  to 
wait  before  she  could  expect  to  be  visited.  She  must 
have  patience,  therefore.  Above  all,  she  must  not  think 
of  the  mountain  of  earth  above  her,  of  the  two  thick 
doors  that  shut  her  off  from  the  living  world,  of  the 
vault  that  almost  touched  her  head  as  she  sat.  For  when 
she  did  the  air  seemed  to  fail  her,  and  the  grip  of  fren- 
zied terror  came  near  to  raising  her  to  her  feet.  Once 
on  her  feet  and  in  that  terror's  grasp,  she  knew  that  she 
would  rave  and  shriek,  and  beat  on  the  walls — and  go 
mad! 

But  she  would  not  think  of  these  things.  She  would 
sit  quite  still  and  hold  the  child  more  tightly  to  her,  and 
be  sensible.  And  be  sensible !  Above  all,  be  sensible ! 

She  thought  of  many  things  as  she  sat  holding  herself 
as  it  were;  of  her  old  home  and  her  old  life,  the  home 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  383 

and  the  life  that  seemed  so  far  away,  though  no  more 
than  a  few  weeks  divided  her  from  them.  But  more 
particularly  she  thought  of  her  folly  and  of  the  events  of 
the  last  month;  and  of  the  child  and  of  the  child's 
father,  and — with  a  shudder — of  Walterson.  How  silly, 
how  unutterably  silly,  she  had  been!  And  what  stuff, 
what  fustian  she  had  mistaken  for  heroism;  while, 
through  all,  the  quiet  restraint  of  the  true  master  of  men 
had  been  under  her  eyes. 

'Not  that  all  the  fault  had  been  hers.  She  was  sure  of 
that  even  now.  Captain  Clyne  had  known  her  as  little 
as  she  had  known  him,  and  had  misjudged  her  as  largely. 
That  he  might  know  her  better  was  her  main  desire  now  ; 
and  that  he  might  know  it,  whatever  the  issue,  she  had 
an  inspiration.  She  took  from  her  neck  the  gold  clasp 
which  had  aroused  old  Hinkson's  greed,  and  she  fastened 
it  securely  inside  the  child's  dress.  If  the  child  were 
rescued,  the  presence  of  the  brooch  would  prove  that  she 
had  succeeded  in  her  quest,  and  been  with  the  boy. 

After  that  she  dozed  off,  and  presently,  strange  to  say, 
she  slept.  Fortunately,  the  child  also  was  worn  out; 
and  the  two  slept  as  soundly  in  the  grim  silence  of  the 
buried  vault,  with  the  load  of  earth  above  them  and  the 
water  trickling  from  the  well-hole  beside  them,  as  in  the 
softest  bed.  They  slept  long,  yet  when  Henrietta  at  last 
awoke  it  was  happily  to  immediate  consciousness  of  the 
position  and  of  the  need  of  coolness.  The  boy  had  been 
first  to  rouse  himself  and  was  crying  for  a  light,  and  for 
something  to  quench  his  thirst.  A  little  milk  remained 
in  the  can,  and  with  infinite  precaution  she  groped  for 
the  vessel  and  found  it.  The  milk  was  sour,  but  the  boy 
lapped  it  eagerly,  and  Henrietta  wetted  her  own  lips,  for 
she,  too,  was  parched  with  thirst.  She  could  have  drunk 


384  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

ten  times  as  much  with  pleasure,  but  she  denied  herself, 
and  set  the  rest  in  a  safe  place.  She  did  not  know  how 
long  she  had  slept,  and  the  fear  that  they  might  be  left 
to  meet  a  dreadful  death  would  lift  its  head,  hard  as 
she  strove  to  trample  on  it. 

She  gave  the  child  a  few  spoonfuls  of  porridge  and 
encouraged  him  to  crawl  about  in  the  darkness.  But 
after  some  restless,  querulous  moanings  he  slept  again, 
and  Henrietta  was  left  to  her  thoughts,  which  continu- 
ally grew  more  uneasy.  She  was  hungry;  and  that 
seemed  to  prove  that  the  morning  was  come  and  gone. 
If  this  were  so  were  they  to  remain  there  all  day  ?  And 
if  all  day,  all  night  ?  And  all  next  day  ?  And  if  so,  if 
they  were  not  discovered  by  next  day,  why  not — for- 
ever? 

Again  she  had  to  struggle  against  the  hysterical  terror 
that  gripped  and  choked  her.  And  resist  it  without 
action  she  could  not.  She  rose,  and  in  the  dark  felt  her 
way  to  the  hatchway  by  which  she  had  entered.  Again 
she  passed  her  fingers  down  the  smooth  edges  where  it 
met  the  brickwork.  She  sought  something,  some  bolt, 
some  peg,  some  hinge — anything  that,  if  it  did  not  lead 
to  freedom,  might  hold  her  thoughts  and  give  her  occu- 
pation. But  there  was  nothing !  And  when  she  had  set 
her  ear  against  the  thick  wood,  still  there  was  nothing. 
She  turned  from  it,  and  went  slowly  and  doggedly  round 
the  prison  on  her  knees,  feeling  the  brickwork  here  and 
there,  and  in  very  dearth  of  hope,  searching  with  her 
fingers  for  that  which  had  baffled  her  eyes.  Round,  and 
round  again;  with  just  a  pause  to  listen  and  a  stifled 
sob.  But  in  vain.  All,  as  she  might  have  known,  was 
toil  in  vain.  All  was  futile,  hopeless.  And  then  the 
child  awoke,  and  she  had  to  take  him  up  and  soothe  him 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  385 

and  give  him  the  last  of  the  milk  and  the  porridge.  He 
seemed  a  little  stronger  and  better.  But  she — she  was 
growing  frightened — horribly  frightened.  She  must  have 
been  hours  in  that  place ;  and  she  was  very  near  to  that 
breakdown,  which  she  had  kept  at  bay  so  long. 

For  she  had  no  more  food.  And,  worse,  with  the 
sound  of  water  almost  in  her  ears,  with  the  knowledge 
that  it  ran  no  more  than  a  few  feet  from  her  in  a  clear 
and  limpid  stream,  she  had  nothing  more  with  which  she 
could  quench  the  boy's  thirst  or  her  own.  And  she  had 
no  light.  That  frantic  struggle  to  free  herself,  that 
strength  of  despair  which  might,  however  improbably, 
have  availed  her,  were  and  must  be  futile  for  her,  fet- 
tered and  maimed  by  a  darkness  that  could  be  felt.  She 
drew  the  child  nearer  and  hugged  him  to  her.  He  was 
her  talisman,  her  all,  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  sanity, 
the  being  outside  herself  for  whom  she  was  bound  to 
think  and  plan  and  be  cool. 

She  succeeded — for  the  moment.  But  as  she  sat,  doz- 
ing a  little  at  intervals,  with  the  child  pressed  closely  to 
her,  she  fell  from  time  to  time  into  fits  of  trembling. 
And  she  prayed  for  light — only  for  light!  And  then 
again  for  some  sound,  some  change  in  the  cold,  dead 
stillness  that  made  her  seem  like  a  thing  apart,  aloof, 
removed  from  other  things.  And  she  was  very  thirsty. 
She  knew  that  presently  the  child  would  grow  thirsty 
again.  And  she  would  have  nothing  to  give  him. 

The  thought  was  torture,  and  she  seemed  to  have  borne 
it  an  age  already;  supported  by  the  fear  of  rousing  the 
boy  and  hastening  the  moment  she  dreaded.  She  would 
have  broken  down,  she  must  have  broken  down,  but  for 
one  thought ;  that,  long  as  the  hours  seemed  to  her,  and 
far  distant  as  the  moment  of  her  entrance  appeared,  she 


386  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

might  be  a  great  way  out  in  her  reckoning  of  time.  She 
might  not  have  been  shut  up  there  so  very  long.  The 
wretches  who  had  put  her  there  might  not  have  fled. 
They  might  not  have  abandoned  her.  If  she  knew  all 
she  might  be  rid  in  an  instant  of  her  fears.  All  the  time 
she  might  be  torturing  herself  for  nothing. 

She  clung  passionately  to  that  thought  and  to  the 
child.  But  the  prolonged  uncertainty,  the  suspense,  the 
waiting,  tried  her  to  the  utmost  of  her  endurance.  Her 
ears  ached  with  the  pain  of  listening;  her  senses  hun- 
gered for  the  sound  of  the  footstep  on  which  all  de- 
pended. Would  that  sound  never  come  ?  Once  or  twice 
she  fancied  that  she  heard  it;  and  mocked  by  hope  she 
stilled  the  very  beating  of  her  heart,  that  she  might  hear 
more  keenly.  But  nothing  followed,  nothing.  Nothing 
happened,  and  her  heart  sickened. 

"Presently,"  she  thought,  "I  shall  begin  to  see  things. 
I  shall  grow  weak  and  fancy  things.  The  horror  of  being 
buried  alive  will  master  me,  and  I  shall  shriek  and  shout 
and  go  mad.  But  that  shall  not  be  until  the  child's  trou- 
ble is  over — God  helping  me !" 

And  then,  dazzling  her  with  its  brightness,  a  sudden 
thought  flashed  through  her  brain.  Fool !  Fool !  She 
had  succumbed  in  despair  when  a  cry  might  release  her ! 
She  had  laid  herself  down  to  die,  when  she  had  but  to' 
lift  up  her  voice,  and  the  odds  were  that  she  would  be 
heard.  Ay,  and  be  freed !  For  had  not  the  girl  threat- 
ened her  with  the  man's  coarse  gallantries  if  she 
screamed  ?  And  to  what  purpose,  if  she  were  buried  so 
deep  that  her  complaints  could  not  be  heard  ? 

The  thought  lifted  a  weight  from  her.  It  revived  her 
hopes,  almost  her  confidence.  Immediately  a  current  of 
vigour  and  courage  coursed  through  her  veins.  But  she 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  387 

did  not  shout  at  once.  The  child  was  asleep ;  she  would 
await  his  awakening,  and  in  the  meantime  she  would 
listen  diligently.  For  if  she  could  be  heard  by  those 
who  approached  the  place,  it  was  possible  that  she  could 
hear  them. 

She  had  barely  conceived  the  thought,  when  the  thing 
for  which  she  had  waited  so  long  happened.  The  silence 
was  broken.  A  sound  struck  her  ear.  A  grating  noise 
followed.  Then  a  shaft  of  light,  so  faint  that  only  eyes 
long  used  to  utter  darkness  could  detect  it,  darted  in  and 
lay  across  the  brickwork  of  the  vault.  In  a  twinkling 
she  was  on  her  knees  and  scrambling  with  the  child  in 
her  arms  towards  the  hatch.  She  had  reached  it  and 
was  touching  it,  when  the  bolts  that  held  up  the  door 
slid  clear,  and  with  a  sharp  report  the  hatch  fell.  A 
burst  of  light  poured  in  and  blinded  her.  But  what  was 
sight  to  her?  She,  who  had  borne  up  against  fear  so 
bravely  had  now  only  one  thought,  only  one  idea  in  her 
mind — to  escape  from  the  vault.  She  tumbled  out  reck- 
lessly, fell  against  something,  and  only  through  the  sup- 
port of  an  unseen  hand  kept  on  her  feet  as  she  alighted 
in  the  well-head. 

A  man  whom  her  haste  had  pushed  aside,  slapped  her 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Lord,  you're  in  a  hurry!"  he  said.  "You've  had 
enough  of  bed  for  once !" 

"So  would  you,"  came  the  answer — in  Bess's  voice — 
"if  you'd  had  twenty-four  hours  of  it,  my  lad.  All  the 
same,  she'll  have  to  go  back." 

Trembling  and  dazed,  Henrietta  peered  from  one  to 
the  other.  Mistress  of  herself  two  minutes  before,  she 
was  now  on  the  verge  of  hysteria,  and  controlled  herself 
with  an  effort. 


388  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "Oh!  thank  God  you've  come! 
Thank  God  you've  come !  I  thought  you  had  left  me." 

She  was  thankful — oh,  she  was  thankful ;  though  these 
were  no  rescuers,  but  the  two  who  had  consigned  her  to 
that  horrible  place.  Bess  raised  the  lanthorn  so  that  its 
light  fell  on  the  girl's  haggard,  twitching  face. 

"We  could  not  come  before,"  she  said,  with  something 
like  pity  in  her  tone.  "That's  all." 

"All!"  Henrietta  gasped.  "All!  Oh,  I  thought  you 
had  left  me !  I  thought  you  had  left  me  !" 

Bess  considered  her,  and  there  was  beyond  doubt  some- 
thing like  softening  in  the  girl's  dark  face.  But  her 
tone  remained  ironical. 

"You  didn't,"  she  said,  "much  fancy  your  bedroom,  I 
guess  ?" 

Henrietta's  teeth  chattered. 

"Oh,  God  forgive  you!"  she  cried.  "I  thought  you 
had  left  me !  I  thought  you'd  left  me !" 

"It  was  your  own  folks'  fault,"  Bess  retorted. 
"They've  never  had  their  eyes  off  the  blessed  house,  one 
or  another  of  them,  from  dawn  to  dark !  We  could  not 
come.  But  now  here's  food,  and  plenty !"  raising  the 
light.  "  How's  the  child  ?" 

"Bad !    Bad !"  Henrietta  muttered. 

She  was  coming  to  her  senses.  She  was  beginning  to 
understand  the  position;  to  comprehend  that  no  res- 
cuers were  here,  no  search  party  had  found  her;  and 
that — and  that — had  not  one  of  them  dropped  a  word 
about  her  going  back  ?  Going  back  meant  going  back  to 
that — place !  With  a  sudden  gesture  she  thrust  the  food 
from  her. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  eat?"  Bess  asked,  staring.  "I 
thought  you'd  be  famished." 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  389 

"Not  here!    Not  here!"  she  answered  violently. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  the  other  rejoined.  "Don't  be  a 
fool !  You're  clemmed,  I'll  be  bound.  Eat  while  you 
can." 

But,  "Not  here !  Not  here !"  Henrietta  replied.  And 
she  thrust  the  food  away. 

The  man  interposed. 

"Stow  it!"  he  said,  in  a  threatening  tone.  "You  eat 
while  you  can  and  where  you  can !" 

But  she  was  desperate. 

"I'll  not  eat  here!"  she  cried.  "I'll  not  eat  here! 
And  I'll  not  go  back!"  her  voice  rising.  "I  will  die 
before  I  will  go  back.  Do  you  hear?"  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  a  wild  creature  at  bay.  "I  do  not  care  what  you 
do!  And  the  child  is  dying.  Another  night — but  I'll 
not  suffer  it !  And  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  me" — repelling 
Bess,  who  had  made  a  feint  of  seizing  her — "I  will 
scream  until  I  am  heard !  Ay,  I  will !"  she  repeated,  her 
eyes  sparkling.  "But  take  me  to  the  house  and  I  will 
go  quietly !  I  will  go  quietly !" 

It  was  plain  that  she  was  almost  beside  herself,  and 
that  fear  of  the  place  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many 
hours  had  driven  out  all  other  fear.  The  two,  who  had 
not  left  her  alone  so  long  without  misgiving,  looked  at 
one  another  and  hesitated.  They  might  overpower  her. 
But  the  place  was  so  closely  watched  that  a  single  shriek 
might  be  heard;  then  they  would  be  taken  red-handed. 
Nor  did  Bess  at  least  wish  to  use  force.  The  position, 
and  her  views,  were  changed.  All  day  curious  eyes  had 
been  fixed  on  the  house,  and  inquisitive  people  had 
started  up  where  they  were  least  expected.  Bess's  folly 
in  bringing  this  hornets'  nest  about  their  ears  had 
shaken  her  influence  with  the  men;  and  the  day  had 


390  THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN 

been  one  long  exchange  of  savage  recriminations.  She 
owned  to  herself  that  she  had  done  a  foolish  thing; 
that  she  had  let  her  spite  carry  her  too  far.  And  in 
secret  she  was  beginning  to  think  how  she  could  clear 
herself. 

She  did  not  despair  of  this ;  for  she  was  crafty  and  of 
a  good  courage.  She  did  not  even  think  it  would  be 
hard;  but  she  must,  as  a  sine  qua  non,  conciliate  the  girl 
whom  she  had  wronged.  Unluckily  she  now  saw  that  she 
could  not  conciliate  her  without  taking  her  to  the  house. 
And  she  could  not  with  safety  take  her  to  the  house. 
The  men  were  irritated  by  the  peril  which  she  had 
brought  upon  them;  they  were  ferocious  and  out  of 
hand ;  and  terribly  suspicious  to  boot.  They  blamed  her, 
Bess,  for  all :  they  had  threatened  her.  And  if  she  was 
not  safe  among  them,  she  was  quite  sure  that  Henrietta 
would  not  be  safe. 

There  was  an  alternative.  She  might  let  the  girl  go 
there  and  then.  And  she  would  have  done  this,  but  she 
could  not  do  it  without  Giles's  consent;  and  she  dared 
not  propose  it  to  him.  He  was  wanted  for  other  offences, 
and  the  safe  return  of  Henrietta  and  the  child  would  not 
clear  him.  He  had  looked  on  the  child,  and  now  looked 
on  the  girl,  as  pawns  in  his  game,  a  quid  pro  quo  with 
which — if  he  were  taken  while  they  remained  in  his 
friends'  hands — he  might  buy  his  pardon.  Bess,  there- 
fore, dared  not  propose  to  free  Henrietta :  and  what  was 
she  to  do  if  the  girl  was  so  foolish  as  to  refuse  to  go  back 
to  the  place  where  she  was  safe  ? 

"Look  here,"  she  said  at  last.  "You're  safer  here  than 
in  the  house,  if  you  will  only  take  my  word  for  it." 

But  there  is  no  arguing  with  fear. 

"I  will  not!"  Henrietta  persisted,  with  passion.     "I 


THE  SMUGGLERS'  OVEN  391 

will  not!  Take  me  out  of  this!  Take  me  out!  The 
child  will  die  here,  and  I  shall  go  mad  ! — mad !" 

"You're  pretty  mad  now,"  the  man  retorted.  But 
that  said,  he  met  Bess's  eyes  and  nodded  reluctantly. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  her  own  lookout.  But  I  think 
she'll  repent  it." 

"Will  you  go  quiet?"  Bess  asked. 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"And  you'll  not  cry  out?    Nor  try  to  break  away?" 

"I  will  not !    I  will  not  indeed !" 

"You  swear  it?" 

"I  do." 

"And  by  G — d,"  the  man  interposed  bluntly,  "she'd 
better  keep  to  it." 

"Very  well,"  Bess  said.  "You  have  it  your  own  way. 
But  I  tell  you  truly,  I  put  you  in  here  for  the  best.  And 
perhaps  you'll  know  it  before  you're  an  hour  older. 
However,  all's  said,  and  it's  your  own  doing." 

"Why  don't  you  let  me  go?"  Henrietta  panted.  "Let 
me  go,  and  let  me  take  the  child !" 

"Stow  it!"  the  man  cried,  cutting  her  short.  "It's 
likely,  when  we're  as  like  as  not  to  pay  dear  for  taking 
you.  Do  you  shut  your  talking-trap  ! " 

"She'll  be  quiet,"  Bess  said,  more  gently.  "So  douse 
the  glim,  lad.  And  do  you  give  me  the  child,"  to  Henri- 
etta. 

But  she  cried,  "No!  No!"  and  held  it  more  closely 
to  her. 

"Very  good!  Then  take  my  hand — you  don't  know 
the  way.  And  not  a  whisper,  mind !  Slip  the  bolt,  Giles ! 
And,  mum,  all !" 


CHAPTEK  XXXIY 

IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

THE  distance  to  the  house  was  short.  Before  Henri- 
etta had  done  more  than  taste  the  bliss  of  the  open  night, 
had  done  more  than  lift  her  eyes  in  thankfulness  to  the 
dark  profundity  above  her,  she  was  under  the  eaves.  A 
stealthy  tap  was  answered  by  the  turning  of  a  key,  a 
door  was  quickly  and  silently  opened,  and  she  was  pushed 
forward.  Bess  muttered  a  word  or  two — to  a  person 
unseen — and  gripping  her  arm,  thrust  her  along  a  pas- 
sage. A  second  door  gave  way  as  mysteriously,  and  Hen- 
rietta found  herself  dazzled  and  blinking  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  kitchen  which  she  had  left  twenty-four  hours 
before.  It  was  lighted,  but  not  with  the  wastefulness 
and  extravagance  of  the  previous  evening.  Nor  did  it 
display  those  signs  of  disorder  and  riot  which  had  yes- 
terday opened  her  eyes. 

She  was  sinking  under  the  weight  of  the  child,  which 
she  had  hugged  to  her  that  it  might  not  cry,  and  she 
went  straight  to  the  settle  and  laid  the  boy  on  it.  He 
opened  his  eyes  and  looked  vacantly  before  him;  but, 
apparently,  he  was  too  far  gone  in  weakness,  or  in  too 
much  fear,  to  cry.  While  Henrietta,  relieved  of  the 
weight,  and  perhaps  of  a  portion  of  her  fears,  sank  on 
the  settle  beside  him,  leant  her  face  on  her  arms  and 

burst  into  passionate  weeping. 

392 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  393 

It  was  perhaps  the  best  thing  in  her  power.  For  the 
men  had  followed  her  into  the  kitchen ;  and  Lunt,  with 
brutal  oaths,  was  asking  why  she  was  there  and  what 
new  folly  was  this.  Bess  turned  on  him — she  well  knew 
how  to  meet  such  attacks ;  and  with  scornful  tongue  she 
bade  him  wait,  calling  him  thick-head,  and  adding  that 
he'd  learn  by-and-by,  if  he  could  learn  anything.  Then, 
while  Giles,  ill-content  himself,  gave  some  kind  of  ac- 
count of  the  thing,  she  began — as  if  it  were  a  trifle — to 
lay  the  supper.  And  almost  by  force  she  got  Henrietta 
to  the  table. 

"It's  food  you  want!"  she  said  bluntly.  "Don't  play 
the  silly!  Who's  hurt  you?  Who's  going  to  hurt  you? 
Here,  take  a  sip  of  this,  and  you'll  feel  better.  Never 
heed  him,"  with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  Lunt.  "He's 
most  times  a  grumbler." 

For  the  moment  Henrietta  was  quite  broken,  and  the 
pressure  which  the  other  exerted  was  salutary.  She  did 
what  she  was  bidden,  swallowing  a  mouthful  of  the 
Scotch  cordial  Bess  forced  on  her,  and  eating  and  drink- 
ing mechanically.  Meanwhile  the  three  men  had  brought 
their  heads  together,  and  sat  discussing  the  position  with 
unconcealed  grudging  and  mistrust. 

At  length : 

"You've  grown  cursed  kind  of  a  sudden  !"  Lunt  swore, 
scowling  at  the  two  women.  The  child,  in  the  presence 
of  the  men,  sat  paralysed  with  terror.  "What's  this 
blamed  fuss  about?" 

"What  fuss?"  Bess  shot  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 
And  going  to  the  child  she  bent  over  it  with  a  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk. 

"Why  don't  you  lay  'em  up  in  lavender?"  the  man 
sneered.  "See  here,  she  was  a  peacock  yesterday  and 


394  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

you'd  grind  her  pretty  face  under  your  heel !  To-day 

What  does  it  mean  ?  I  want  to  know." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  want  'em  to  die?"  the  girl  re- 
turned, in  the  same  tone  of  contempt. 

"What  do  I  care  whether  they  die?" 

"They'd  be  much  use  to  us,  dead !"  she  retorted. 

Giles  nodded  assent. 

"The  girl's  right  there,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "Best 
leave  it  to  her.  She's  a  cunning  one  and  no  mistake." 

"Ay,  cunning  enough!"  Lunt  answered.  "But  whose 
game  is  she  playing  ?  Hers  or  ours  ?" 

"Didn't  know  you  had  one !"  Bess  flung  at  him.  And 
then  in  an  undertone,  "Dolt!"  she  muttered. 

"It's  all  one,  man,  it's  all  one!"  Giles  said.  On  the 
whole  he  was  for  peace.  "Best  have  supper,  and  talk  it 
over  after." 

"And  let  the  first  that  comes  in  through  the  door  find 
her  ?"  Lunt  cried. 

"Who's  to  come?" 

"Didn't  they  come  here  this  morning ?  And  last  night? 
And  if  she'd  been  here,  or  the  child — 

"Ay,  but  they  weren't!"  Bess  answered  brusquely. 
"And  that's  the  reason  the  coves  won't  come  again.  For 
the  matter  of  that,"  turning  fiercely  on  them,  "who  was 
it  cleaned  up  after  you,  you  dirty  dogs,  and  put  this 
place  straight?  Without  which  they'd  have  known  as 
much  the  moment  they  put  their  noses  in — as  if  the  girl 
had  been  sitting  on  the  settle  there.  Who  was  it  thought 
of  that,  and  did  it  ?  And  hid  you  safe  upstairs  ?" 

"You  did,  Bess — you  did  !"  the  gipsy  answered,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time.  "And  a  gay,  clever  wench  you 
are!"  He  looked  defiantly  at  Lunt.  "You're  a  game 
cove,"  he  said,  "but  you're  not  fly !" 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  395 

Lunt  for  answer  fired  half  a  dozen  oaths  at  him.  But 
Giles  interposed. 

"We're  all  in  one  boat,"  he  said.  "And  food's  plenty. 
Let's  stop  jawing  and  to  it !" 

Two  of  the  men  seemed  to  think  the  advice  good.  And 
they  began  to  eat,  still  debating.  The  third,  Saul,  con- 
tinued to  listen  to  his  companions,  but  his  sly  eyes  never 
left  Henrietta,  who  sat  a  little  farther  down  the  table 
on  the  opposite  side.  She  was  not  for  some  time  aware 
of  his  looks,  or  of  their  meaning.  But  Bess,  who  knew 
his  nature — he  was  her  cousin — and  who  saw  only  what 
she  had  feared  to  see,  frowned  as  she  marked  the  direc- 
tion of  his  glances.  In  the  act  of  sitting  down  she 
paused,  leant  over  the  table,  and  with  a  quick  movement 
swept  off  the  Hollands  bottle. 

But  the  gipsy,  with  a  grin,  touched  Lunt's  elbow.  And 
the  ruffian  seeing  what  she  was  doing,  fell  into  a  fresh 
fury  and  bade  her  put  the  bottle  back  again. 

"I  shall  not,"  she  said.  "You've  ale,  and  plenty.  Do 
you  want  to  be  drunk  if  the  girl's  folks  come?" 

"Curse  you !"  he  retorted.  "Didn't  you  say  a  minute 
ago  that  they  wouldn't  come?" 

Giles  sided  with  him — for  the  first  time. 

"Ay,  that's  blowing  hot  and  cold  !"  he  said.  "Put  the 
gin  back,  lass,  and  no  two  words  about  it." 

She  stood  darkly  hesitating,  as  if  she  meant  to  refuse. 
But  Lunt  had  risen,  and  it  was  clear  that  he  would  take 
no  refusal  that  was  not  backed  by  force.  She  replaced 
the  Dutch  bottle  sullenly ;  and  Giles  drew  it  towards  him 
and  with  a  free  hand  laced  his  ale. 

"There's  naught  like  dog's  nose,"  he  said,  "to  comfort 
a  man!  The  lass  forgets  that  it's  wintry  weather  and 
I've  been  out  in  it !" 


396  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

"A  dram's  a  dram,  winter  or  summer !"  Lunt  growled. 
And  he  followed  the  example. 

But  Bess  knew  that  she  had  lost  the  one  ally  on  whom 
she  had  counted.  She  could  manage  Giles  sober.  But 
drink  was  the  man's  weakness;  and  when  he  was  drunk 
he  was  as  brutal  as  his  comrade ;  and  more  dangerous. 

She  had  satisfied  her  grudge  against  Henrietta.  And 
she  was  aware  now,  only  too  well  aware,  that  she  had  let 
it  carry  her  too  far.  She  had  nothing  to  gain  by  fur- 
ther violence;  she  had  everything  to  lose  by  it.  For  if 
the  girl  were  ill-treated,  there  would  be  no  mercy  for  any 
of  the  party,  if  taken;  while  escape,  in  the  face  of  the 
extraordinary  measures  which  Clyne  was  taking  and  of 
the  hostility  of  the  countryside,  was  doubtful  at  the  best. 
As  she  thought  of  these  things  and  ate  her  supper  with 
a  sombre  face,  she  wished  with  all  her  heart  that  she  had 
never  seen  the  girl,  and  never,  to  satisfy  a  silly  spite,  de- 
coyed her.  Her  one  aim  now  was  to  get  her  out  of  the 
men's  sight,  and  to  shut  her  up  where  she  might  be  safe 
till  morning.  It  was  a  pity,  it  was  a  thousand  pities, 
that  Henrietta  had  not  stayed  in  the  smugglers'  oven ! 
And  Bess  wondered  if  she  could  even  now  persuade  her 
to  return  to  it.  But  a  glance  at  Henrietta's  haggard 
face,  on  which  the  last  twenty-four  hours  had  imprinted 
a  stamp  it  would  take  many  times  twenty- four  hours  to 
efface,  warned  her  that  advice — short  of  the  last  ex- 
tremity— would  be  useless.  It  remained  to  remove  the 
girl  to  the  only  place  where  she  might,  with  luck,  lie  safe 
and  unmolested. 

In  this  Henrietta  might  aid  her — had  she  her  wits 
about  her.  But  Henrietta  did  not  seem  to  be  awake  to 
the  peril.  The  insolence  of  the  gipsy's  glances,  which 
had  yesterday  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks,  passed 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  397 

unnoted,  so  complete  was  her  collapse.  Doubtless 
strength  would  return,  nay,  was  even  now  returning; 
and  presently  wit  would  return.  For  her  nerves  were 
young,  and  would  quickly  recover  their  tone.  But  for 
the  moment,  she  was  almost  comatose.  Having  eaten 
and  drunk,  she  sat  heavily,  with  her  elbow  on  the  table, 
her  head  resting  on  her  hand.  The  sleeve  had  fallen 
back  from  her  wrist,  and  the  gipsy  lad's  eyes  rested  long 
and  freely  on  the  white  roundness  of  her  arm.  Her  fair 
complexion  seduced  him  as  no  dark  beauty  had  power  to 
seduce.  He  eyed  her  as  the  tiger  eyes  the  fawn  before  it 
springs  from  covert.  Bess,  who  read  his  looks  as  if  they 
had  been  an  open  book,  and  who  saw  that  Giles,  her  one 
dependence,  was  growing  more  sullen  and  dangerous 
with  every  draught,  could  have  struck  Henrietta  for  her 
fatuous  stolidity. 

One  thing  was  clear.  The  longer  she  put  off  the  move, 
the  more  dangerous  the  men  were  like  to  be.  Bess  never 
lacked  resolution,  and  she  was  quick  to  take  her  part. 
As  soon  as  she  had  eaten  and  drunk  her  fill,  she  rose  and 
tapped  Henrietta  on  the  shoulder. 

"We're  best  away,"  she  said  coolly.  "Will  you  carry 
the  brat  upstairs,  or  shall  I  ?" 

For  a  moment  she  thought  that  she  had  carried  her 
point.  For  no  one  spoke  or  objected.  But  when  Henri- 
etta rose  and  turned  to  the  settle  to  take  up  the  boy,  the 
gipsy  muttered  something  in  Lunt's  ear.  The  ruffian 
glared  across  at  the  girls,  and  struck  the  haft  of  his  knife 
with  violence  on  the  board. 

"Upstairs?"  he  roared.  "No,  my  girl,  you  don't! 
We  keep  together !  We  keep  together !  S'help  me,  if  I 
don't  think  you  mean  to  peach !" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  she  answered.    And  she  furtively 


398  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

touched  Henrietta's  arm,  as  a  sign  to  her  to  be  ready. 
Then  to  the  gipsy  lad,  in  a  tone  full  of  meaning,  "The 
gentry  mort,"  she  said,  in  thieves'  patter,  "is  not  worth 
the  nubbing-cheat.  I'm  fly,  and  I'll  not  have  it.  Stow 
it,  my  lad,  and  don't  be  a  flat !" 

"And  let  you  peach  on  us?"  he  answered,  smiling. 

Lunt  struck  the  table. 

"Stop  your  lingo!"  he  said.  "Here,  you!"  to  Giles. 
"Are  you  going  to  let  these  two  sell  us?  The  lass  is  on 
to  peaching,  that's  my  belief!" 

"We'll — soon  stop  that,"  Giles  replied,  with  a  hic- 
cough. "Here,  I'll — I'll  take  one,  and  you — you 
t'other !  And  we'll  fine  well  stop  their  peaching,  pretty 
dears !"  He  staggered  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  his  face 
inflamed  with  drink.  "Peach,  will  they?"  he  muttered, 
swaying  a  little,  and  scowling  at  them  over  the  dull,  un- 
snuffed  candles.  "We'll  stop  that,  and — and  ha'  some 
fun,  too." 

"S'help  us  if  we  don't !"  cried  Lunt,  also  rising  to  his 
feet.  "Let's  live  to-day,  if  we  die  to-morrow!  You 
take  one  and  I'll  take  the  other !" 

The  gipsy  lad  grinned. 

"Who's  the  flat  now?"  he  chuckled.  He  alone  re- 
mained seated,  with  his  arms  on  the  table.  "You've 
raised  your  pipe  too  soon,  my  lass !" 

"Stow  this  folly !"  Bess  answered,  keeping  a  bold  face. 
"We're  going  upstairs,"  she  continued.  "Do  you" — to 
Henrietta — "bring  the  child." 

But,  "Curse  me  if  you  are!"  Giles  answered.  Drink 
had  made  him  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two.  He 
lurched  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  placed  himself  be- 
tween the  girls  and  the  foot  of  the  open  staircase  that 
led  to  the  upper  floor.  "We're  one  apiece  for  you 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  399 

and  one  over !  And  you're  going  to  stay,  my  girls,  and 
amuse  us!" 

And  he  opened  his  arms,  with  a  tipsy  laugh. 

If  Henrietta  had  been  slow  to  see  the  danger,  she  saw 
it  now.  And  the  shock  was  the  greater.  The  men's 
flushed  faces  and  vinous  eyes,  still  more  the  dark  face 
of  the  smiling  gipsy  who  had  raised  the  tempest  for  his 
own  ends,  filled  her  with  fear.  She  clutched  the  child  to 
her,  but  as  much  by  instinct  as  from  calculation ;  and  she 
cast  a  desperate  look  round  her — only  to  see  that  retreat 
was  cut  off.  The  girls  were  hemmed  in  on  the  hearth  be- 
tween the  fire  and  the  long  table,  and  it  was  hard  to  say 
which  of  the  men  she  most  dreaded.  She  had  gone 
through  much  already  and  she  cowered,  white  to  the  lips, 
behind  her  companion,  who,  for  her  part,  looked  greater 
confidence  than  she  felt.  But  whatever  Bess's  fears,  she 
rallied  bravely  to  the  occasion,  being  no  stranger  to  such 
scenes. 

"Well,"  she  said,  temporising,  "we'll  sit  down  a  bit  if 
you'll  mind  your  manners.  But  we'll  sit  here,  my  lads, 
and  together." 

"No,  one  apiece,"  Giles  hiccoughed,  before  she  had 
finished  speaking.  "One  apiece!  You  come  and  sit  by 
me — 'twon't  be  the  first  time,  my  beauty!  And — and 
t'other  one  by  him  !" 

Bess  stamped  her  foot  in  a  rage. 

"No!"  she  cried,  "I  will  not!  You'll  just  stay  on 
your  own  side  !  And  we  on  ours !" 

"You'll  just  do  as  I  say!"  the  man  answered,  with 
tipsy  obstinacy.  "You'll  just  do — a*s  I  say !" 

And  he  lurched  forward,  thinking  to  take  her  by  sur- 
prise and  seize  her. 

Henrietta  screamed,  and  recoiled  to  the  farthest  cor- 


400  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

ner  of  the  chimney  nook.  Bess  stood  her  ground,  but 
with  a  dark  face  thrust  her  hand  into  her  bosom — 
probably  for  a  knife.  She  never  drew  it,  however. 
Before  Giles  could  touch  her,  or  Lunt,  who  was 
coasting  about  the  long  table  to  come  at  Henrietta, 
had  compassed  half  the  distance — there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door. 

It  was  a  small  thing,  but  it  was  enough.  It  checked 
the  men  as  effectually  as  if  it  had  been  the  knell  of  doom. 
They  hung  arrested,  eye  questioning  eye;  or,  in  turn, 
tip-toeing  to  gain  their  weapons,  they  cast  looks  of  men- 
ace at  the  women.  And  they  listened  with  murder  in 
their  eyes. 

"If  you  breathe  a  word,"  Giles  hissed,  "I'll  throttle 
you !" 

And  he  raised  his  hand  for  silence.  The  knock  was 
repeated. 

"Some  one  must  go,"  the  gipsy  lad  muttered. 

His  face  was  sallow  with  fear. 

"Go?"  Bess  answered,  in  a  low  tone,  but  one  of  fierce 
passion.  "Who's  to  go  but  me?  See  now  where  you'd 
be  without  me!" 

"And  do  you  see  here,"  Lunt  made  answer,  and  he 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  and  cocked  it,  "one  word 
more  than's  needful,  and  I'll  blow  your  brains  out,  my 
lass.  If  I  go,  you  go  first !  So  mark  me,  and  speak  'em 
fair!" 

And  with  a  gesture  he  pointed  to  the  dairy,  and  beck- 
oned to  the  other  men  to  retire  thither. 

He  seemed  to  be  about  to  command  Henrietta  to  go 
with  them.  But  he  saw  that  in  sheer  terror  she  would 
disobey  him,  or  he  thought  her  sufficiently  hidden  where 
she  was.  For  when  he  had  seen  the  other  men  out  he 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  401 

followed  them,  and  holding  the  door  of  the  dairy  half 
open  showed  Bess  the  pistol. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "and  by  G — d,  remember.  For  I'll 
keep  my  word." 

Bess  had  already,  with  a  hasty  hand,  removed  some  of 
the  plates  and  mugs  from  the  table.  She  made  sure  that 
Henrietta  was  all  but  invisible  behind  the  settle.  Then 
she  went  to  the  door. 

"Who's  there?"  she  cried  aloud. 

No  one  answered,  but  the  knock  was  repeated. 

Henrietta  raised  her  white  face  above  the  level  of  the 
settle.  She  listened,  and  hope,  terrified  as  she  was,  rose 
in  her  heart.  Who  was  likely  to  visit  this  lonely  house 
at  so  late  an  hour?  Was  it  not  almost  certain  that  her 
friends  were  there?  And  that  another  minute  would 
see  her  safe  in  their  hands  ? 

Giles's  dark  face  peering  from  the  doorway  of  the 
dairy  answered  that  question.  The  muzzle  of  his  wea- 
pon now  covered  her,  now  Bess.  Sick  at  heart,  almost 
fainting,  she  sank  again  behind  the  settle  and  prayed. 
While  Bess  with  a  noisy  hand  thrust  back  the  great  bar, 
and  opened  the  door. 

There  was  no  inrush  of  feet,  and  Bess  looked  out. 

"Well,  who  is  it  ?"  she  asked  of  the  darkness.  "You're 
late  enough,  whoever  you  are." 

The  entering  draught  blew  the  flames  of  the  candles 
awry.  Then  a  woman's  voice  was  heard : 

"  I've  come  to  ask  how  the  missus  is/'  it  said. 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you?  And  a  fine  time  this!" 
Bess  scolded,  with  wonderful  glibness.  "She's  neither 
better  nor  worse.  So  there !  I  hope  you  think  it's  worth 
your  trouble !" 

"And  the  baby?    I  heard  it  was  dead." 


402  IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN 

"Then  you  heard  a  lie !" 

The  visitor,  who  was  no  other  than  Mrs.  Tyson's  old 
servant,  the  stolid  woman  who  had  once  admitted  Hen- 
rietta to  the  house,  seemed  at  a  loss  what  to  say  next. 
After  an  awkward  pause : 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "well,  I  am  glad.  I  was  not  sure  you 
hadn't  left  her.  And  if  she  can't  get  out  of  her  bed 

"You  thought  there'd  be  pickings  about!"  Bess  cried, 
in  her  most  insolent  tone.  "Well,  there  ain't,  my  girl! 
And  don't  you  come  up  again  scaring  us  after  dark,  or 
you'll  hear  a  bit  more  of  my  mind !" 

"You're  not  easy  scared!"  the  woman  retorted  con- 
temptuously. "Don't  tell  me!  It  takes  more  than  the 
dark  to  frighten  you !" 

"Anyway,  nine  o'clock  is  my  hour  for  getting  scared," 
Bess  returned.  "And  as  it's  after  that,  and  you've  a 
dark  walk  back D'you  come  through  the  wood  ?" 

"Ay,  I  did." 

"Then  you'd  best  go  back  that  way!"  Bess  replied. 

And  she  shut  the  door  in  the  woman's  face,  and  flung 
the  bar  over  with  a  resounding  bang. 

And  quickly,  before  the  men,  heaving  sighs  of  relief, 
had  had  time  to  emerge  from  their  retreat,  she  was  across 
the  floor,  and  had  dragged  Henrietta  to  her  feet. 

"Up  the  stairs!"  she  whispered.  "The  door  on  the 
left !  Knock !  Knock !  I'll  keep  them  back." 

Taken  by  surprise  as  she  was,  Henrietta's  courage  rose. 
She  bounded  to  the  open  stairs,  and  was  half-way  up  be- 
fore the  men  took  in  the  position  and  understood  that 
she  was  escaping  them.  They  rushed  forward  then,  fall- 
ing over  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to  seize  her.  But 
they  were  too  late,  Bess  was  before  them.  She  sprang  on 
to  the  widest  of  the  lower  steps  where  the  staircase 


IN  TYSON'S  KITCHEN  403 

turned  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  flashing  her  knife 
in  their  eyes,  she  swore  that  she  would  blind  the  first 
man  who  ascended.  They  knew  her,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment fell  back  daunted  and  dismayed ;  for  Giles  had  put 
up  his  pistol.  He  bethought  himself,  indeed,  of  pulling 
it  out,  when  he  found  parley  useless ;  but  it  was  then  too 
late.  By  that  time  Bess's  ear  told  her  that  Henrietta 
was  safe  in  Mrs.  Tyson's  room,  with  the  bolt  shot  behind 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THROUGH   THE   WOOD 

BEHIND  the  closed  door  the  two  haggard-faced  women 
looked  at  one  another.  Mrs.  Tyson  had  not  left  her  bed 
for  many  days.  But  she  had  heard  the  knocking  at  the 
outer  door  and  the  answering  growl  of  the  dog  chained 
under  her  window;  and  hoping,  yet  scarcely  daring  to 
expect,  that  the  nightmare  was  over  and  her  husband  or 
her  friends  were  at  hand,  she  had  dragged  herself  from 
the  bed  and  opened  the  door  as  soon  as  the  knocking 
sounded  in  turn  at  that. 

For  days,  indeed,  one  strand,  and  one  only,  had  held 
the  feeble,  frightened  woman  to  life;  and  that  strand 
was  the  babe  that  lay  beside  her.  The  sheep  will  fight 
for  its  lamb,  the  wren  for  its  fledglings.  And  Mrs.  Tyson, 
if  she  had  not  fought,  had  for  the  babe's  sake  borne  and 
endured;  and  surrounded  by  the  ruffians  who  had  the 
house  at  their  mercy,  she  had  survived  terrors  that  in 
other  circumstances  would  have  driven  her  mad. 

True,  Bess  had  not  ill-treated  her.  On  the  contrary, 
she  had  been  almost  kind  to  her.  And  lonely  and  ill, 
dependent  on  her  for  everything,  the  woman  had  lost 
much  of  her  dread  of  the  girl ;  though  now  and  again,  in 
sheer  wantonness,  Bess  would  play  with  her  fears.  Cer- 
tain that  the  weak-willed  creature  would  not  dare  to  tell 
what  she  knew,  Bess  had  boasted  to  her  of  Henrietta's 
presence  and  her  danger  and  her  plight.  When  Hen- 
rietta, therefore,  the  moment  the  door  was  unfastened, 

404 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  405 

flung  herself  into  the  room,  and  with  frantic  fingers 
helped  to  secure  the  door  behind  her,  Mrs.  Tyson  was 
astonished  indeed;  but  less  astonished  than  alarmed. 
She  was  alarmed  in  truth,  almost  to  swooning,  and 
showed  a  face  as  white  as  paper. 

Luckily,  Henrietta  had  resumed  the  wit  and  courage 
of  which  stupor  had  deprived  her  for  a  time.  She  had 
no  longer  Bess  at  her  elbow  to  bid  her  do  this  or  that. 
But  she  had  Bess's  example  and  her  own  spirit.  There 
was  an  instant  of  stricken  silence,  during  which  she  and 
the  woman  looked  fearfully  into  one  another's  faces  by 
the  light  of  the  poor  dip  that  burned  beside  the  gloomy 
tester.  Then  Henrietta  took  her  part.  She  laid  down 
the  child,  to  which  she  had  clung  instinctively;  and  with 
a  strength  which  surprised  herself,  she  dragged  a  chest, 
that  stood  but  a  foot  on  one  side  of  the  opening,  across 
the  door.  It  would  not  withstand  the  men  long,  but  it 
would  check  them.  She  looked  doubtfully  at  the  bed, 
but  mistrusted  her  power  to  move  it.  And  before  she 
could  do  more,  a  sound  reached  them  from  an  unex- 
pected quarter,  and  struck  at  the  root  of  her  plans.  For 
it  came  from  the  window;  and  so  unexpectedly,  that  it 
flung  them  into  one  another's  arms. 

Mrs.  Tyson  screamed  loudly.  They  clung  to  one  an- 
other. 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?"  Henrietta  cried. 

Then  she  saw  a  spectral  face  pressed  against  the  dark 
casement.  A  hand  tapped  repeatedly  on  a  pane. 

Henrietta  put  Mrs.  Tyson  from  her  and  approached 
the  window.  She  discovered  that  the  face  was  a  woman's 
face,  and  with  fumbling  fingers  she  slid  aside  the  catch 
that  secured  the  window. 

"Tell  the  missus  not  to  be  scared,"  whispered  an  anx- 


406  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 

ious  voice.  "  Tell  her  it's  me !  I  got  up  the  pear  tree  to 
see  her,  and  I  saw  you.  I  knew  that  Bess  was  lying,  and 
I  thought  I'd — I  thought  I'd  just  get  up  and  see  for 
myself !" 

"Thank  God  !"  Henrietta  cried,  clinging  to  the  sill  in 
a  passion  of  relief  as  she  recognised  the  stolid-faced  ser- 
vant. "You  know  me?" 

"You're  the  young  lady  that's  missing?"  the  woman 
answered,  taking  a  securer  hold  of  the  window-frame, 
and  bringing  her  head  into  the  room.  "I  know  you.  I 
was  thinking  if  I  dared  scare  the  missus,  when  I  see  you 
tumble  in — I  nigh  tumbled  down  with  surprise!  I'll 
go  hot-foot  and  take  the  news,  miss !" 

"No,  no,  I  shall  come!" 

"You  let  me  go  and  fetch  'em !  I'll  bet,  miss,  I'll  be 
welcome.  And  do  you  bide  quiet  and  safe.  Now  we 
know  where  you  are,  they'll  not  harm  you." 

But  Henrietta  had  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stairs,  and 
she  was  not  going  to  bide  quiet.  She  had  no  belief  in 
her  safety. 

"No,"  she  said  resolutely.  "I  am  coming.  Can  you 
take  the  child?" 

"Well,  if  you  must,  but " 

"I  must!    I  must!" 

"Lord,  you  are  frightened!"  the  woman  muttered, 
looking  at  her  face.  And  then,  catching  the  infection, 
"Is't  as  bad  as  that?"  she  said.  "Ay,  give  me  the  child, 
then.  And  for  the  Lord's  sake,  be  quick,  miss.  This 
pear  is  as  good  as  a  ladder,  and  the  dog  knows  me  as 
well  as  its  own  folk  !" 

"The  child !  The  child !"  Henrietta  repeated.  Again 
her  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet,  and  of 
whispering  on  the  stairs.  She  carried  the  child,  which 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  407 

seemed  paralysed  by  fear,  to  the  sill,  and  delivered  it  into 
the  other's  arm. 

The  sill  of  the  window  was  barely  ten  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  an  old  pear  tree,  spread-eagled  against  the 
wall,  formed  a  natural  ladder.  The  dog,  which  had  been 
chained  under  the  window  to  guard  against  egress,  knew 
the  woman  and  did  no  more  than  stand  below  and  wag 
its  tail.  In  two  minutes  Henrietta  was  safe  on  the 
ground,  had  taken  the  child  from  the  other's  arms,  and 
was  ready  for  flight. 

But  the  servant  would  not  leave  until  she  had  made 
sure  that  her  mistress  had  strength  to  close  the  window. 
That  done,  she  turned  to  Henrietta. 

"Now  come!"  she  said.  "And  don't  spare  yourself, 
miss,  for  if  they  catch  us  after  this  they'll  for  certain 
cut  our  throats !" 

Henrietta  had  no  need  of  the  spur,  and  at  their  best 
pace  the  two  fled  down  the  paddock,  the  servant-wench 
holding  Henrietta  by  the  elbow  and  impelling  her.  The 
moon  had  risen,  and  Mrs.  Tyson,  poor,  terrified,  trem- 
bling woman,  watching  them  from  the  window,  could 
follow  them  down  the  pale  meadow,  and  even  discern  the 
dark  line  of  the  rivulet,  along  the  bank  of  which  they 
passed,  and  here  and  there  a  patch  of  higher  herbage,  or 
a  solitary  boulder  left  in  the  middle  of  the  turf  for  a 
scratching-post.  Perhaps  she  made,  in  leaning  forward, 
some  noise  which  irritated  the  dog ;  or  perhaps  the  moon- 
light annoyed  it.  At  any  rate,  it  began  to  bay. 

By  that  time,  however,  Henrietta  and  her  companion 
had  gained  the  shadow  of  the  trees  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  wooded  gorge  through  which  the  stream  escaped. 
They  stood  there  a  brief  while  to  take  breath,  and  the 
woman  offered  to  carry  the  child.  But  Henrietta,  though 


408  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 

she  felt  that  her  strength  was  uncertain,  though  she  ex- 
perienced an  odd  giddiness,  was  unwilling  to  resign  her 
charge.  And  after  a  pause  they  started  to  descend  the 
winding  path  which  followed  the  stream,  and  often 
crossed  and  re-crossed  it. 

They  stumbled  along  as  fast  as  they  could.  But  this 
was  not  very  fast.  For  not  only  was  it  dark  in  the  cov- 
ert, but  the  track  was  beset  with  projecting  roots,  and 
overhead  branches  hung  low  and  scraped  their  faces. 
More  than  once  startled  by  a  rabbit,  or  the  gurgle  of  the 
falling  water,  they  stopped  to  listen,  fancying  that  they 
were  pursued.  Still  they  went  fast  enough  to  feel  ulti- 
mate safety  certain;  and  Henrietta,  as  she  held  an  end 
of  the  other's  petticoat  between  her  fingers  and  followed 
patiently,  bade  herself  bear  up  a  little  longer  and  it 
would  be  over.  It  would  soon  be  over,  and  she — she 
would  put  his  child  in  his  arms.  It  would  soon  be  over, 
and  she  would  be  able  to  sink  down  upon  her  bed  and 
rest.  For  she  was  very  weary — and  odd.  Very,  unac- 
countably weary.  When  she  stumbled  or  her  foot  found 
the  descent  longer  than  she  expected,  she  staggered  and 
swayed  on  her  feet. 

But,  "We  shall  soon  be  safe !  We  shall  soon  be  safe !" 
she  told  herself.  "And  the  child !" 

Meanwhile  they  had  passed  the  darkest  part  of  the  lit- 
tle ravine.  They  had  passed  the  place  where  the  water- 
falls made  the  descent  most  arduous.  They  could  even 
see  below  them  a  piece  of  the  road  lying  white  in  the 
moonlight. 

On  a  sudden  Henrietta  stopped. 

"You  must  take  the  child,"  she  faltered,  in  a  tone 
that  startled  her  companion.  "I  can't  carry — it  any 
farther." 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  409 

"I'll  take  it.  You  should  have  given  it  me  before!" 
the  woman  scolded.  "That's  better.  Quiet,  my  lad. 
I'll  not  hurt  you !"  For  the  child,  silent  hitherto,  had 
begun  to  whimper.  "Now,  miss,"  she  continued  sharply, 
"bear  up  !  It's  but  a  little  way  farther." 

"I  don't  think — I  can,"  Henrietta  said.  The  crisis 
over,  she  felt  her  strength  ebbing  away  in  the  strangest 
fashion.  She  swayed,  and  had  to  cling  to  a  tree  for  sup- 
port. "You  must  go  on — without  me,"  she  stammered. 

"I'll  not  go  on  without  you,"  the  woman  answered. 
She  was  loath  to  leave  the  girl  helpless  in  the  wood, 
where  it  was  possible  that  she  might  still  come  to  harm. 
"You  come  down  to  the  road,  miss.  Pluck  up !  Pluck 
up!  It's  but  a  step!" 

And  partly  by  words,  partly  by  means  of  a  vigorous 
arm,  the  good  creature  got  the  girl  to  the  bottom  of  the 
wood,  and  by  a  last  effort,  half  lifted,  half  dragged  her 
over  the  stile  which  closed  the  gap  in  the  wall.  But  once 
in  the  road,  Henrietta  seemed  scarcely  conscious  where 
she  was.  She  tottered,  and  the  moment  the  woman  took 
her  hands  from  her,  she  sank  down  against  the  wall. 

"Leave  me!  Leave  me!"  she  muttered,  with  a  last 
exertion  of  sense.  "And  take  the  child!  I'm — giddy. 
Only  giddy!  I  shall  be  better  in  a  minute."  Then,  "I 
think — I  think  I  am.  fainting." 

"I  think  you  are,"  the  woman  answered  drily.  She 
stooped  over  her.  "Poor  thing !"  she  said.  "There's 
no  knowing  what  has  happened  to  her  !  But  she'll  freeze 
as  she  is !" 

And  whipping  off  her  thick  drugget  shawl — they  made 
such  shawls  in  Kendal — she  wrapped  it  about  the  girl, 
snatched  up  the  child,  and  set  off  running  and  walking 
along  the  road.  The  Low  Wood  Inn  lay  not  more  than 


410  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 

four  furlongs  away,  and  she  counted  on  returning  in 
twenty  minutes. 

"Ay,  in  twenty  minutes!"  she  muttered,  and  then, 
saving  her  breath,  she  kept  on  steadily  along  the  moon- 
lit road,  soothing  the  child  with  a  word  when  it  was 
necessary.  In  a  very  brief  time  she  was  out  of  sight. 

For  a  while  all  was  still  as  death.  Then  favoured  by 
the  recumbent  position,  Henrietta  began  to  recover ;  and 
presently,  but  not  until  some  minutes  had  elapsed,  she 
came  to  herself. 

She  sighed  deeply,  and  gazing  upward  at  the  dark  sky, 
with  its  twinkling  stars,  she  wondered  how  she  came  to 
be  in  such  a  strange  place;  but  without  any  desire  to 
rise,  or  any  wish  to  solve  the  riddle.  A  second  sigh  as 
deep  as  the  first  lifted  the  oppression  from  her  breast; 
and  with  returning  strength  she  wondered  what  was  the 
long  dark  line  that  bounded  her  vision.  Was  it,  could  it 
be,  the  head-board  of  her  bed  ?  Or  the  tester  ? 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  wall  that  bounded  the  wood,  but 
she  was  not  able  to  take  that  in.  And  though  the  nipping 
air,  blowing  freely  on  her  face,  was  doing  its  best  to  re- 
fresh her,  and  she  was  beginning  to  grope  in  her  mem- 
ory for  the  past,  it  needed  a  sound,  a  voice,  to  restore  to 
her,  not  her  powers,  but  her  consciousness.  The  event 
soon  happened.  Two  men  drew  near,  talking  in  low 
fierce  tones.  At  first,  lying  there  as  in  a  dream,  she 
heard  without  understanding;  and  then,  still  powerless 
under  the  spell,  she  heard  and  understood. 

"Why  didn't  you,"  Lunt's  voice  growled  hoarsely, 
"loose  the  dog,  as  I  told  you?  We'd  have  had  her  by 
now." 

"Ay,  and  have  had  the  country  about  our  ears,  too," 
Giles  answered  angrily. 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  411 

"And  shan't  we  have  it  about  our  ears  when  that 
vixen  has  told  her  tale?"  the  other  cried.  "I  swear  my 
neck  aches  now !" 

"She  couldn't  carry  the  brat  far,  nor  fast." 

"No,  but — what's  that?"  There  was  alarm  in  Lunt's 
tone. 

"Only  the  lad  following  us,"  Giles  answered.  "He's 
brought  the  lanthorn." 

Perhaps  the  three  separated  then :  perhaps  not.  She 
could  not  rise  to  see.  She  was  paralysed.  She  lay  as  in 
a  nightmare,  and  was  conscious  only  of  the  yellow  gleam 
of  the  lanthorn  as  it  quartered  the  ground  this  way  and 
that,  and  came  nearer  and  nearer.  At  last  the  man  who 
carried  it  was  close  to  her ;  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 
He  raised  the  lanthorn  above  his  head,  and  looked  over 
the  wall.  By  evil  chance,  the  light  focussed  itself  upon 
her. 

She  knew  that  she  was  discovered.  And  her  terror 
was  the  greater  because  she  knew  that  the  man  who 
held  the  lanthorn  was  the  gipsy — whom  she  feared  the 
most  of  all.  But  she  was  not  capable  of  motion  or 
of  resistance;  and  though  he  held  the  light  steadily 
on  her,  and  for  a  few  seconds  she  saw  in  the  side- 
glow  his  dark  features  gleaming  down  at  her,  she  lay 
fascinated.  She  waited  for  him  to  proclaim  his  dis- 
covery. 

He  shut  off  the  light  abruptly. 

"So — ho!  back!"  he  cried.  "She's  not  this  way! 
Maybe  she's  in  the  bushes  above !" 

"This  way?" 

"Ay!" 

"Then,  burn  you,  why  don't  you  bring  the  light,  in- 
stead of  talking?"  Lunt  retorted.  And  from  the  sound 


412  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 

he  appeared  to  be  kicking  the  nearer  bushes,  and  prob- 
ing them  with  a  stick. 

The  gipsy  answered  impudently,  and  the  three,  blam- 
ing one  another,  moved  off  up  the  wood. 

"You  should  have  brought  the  dog,"  one  cried. 

"Oh,  curse  the  dog  !"  was  the  answer.  "I  tell  you  she 
can't  be  far  off  !  She  can't  have  come  as  low  as  this." 
The  light  was  thrown  hither  and  thither.  "  She's  some- 
where among  the  bushes.  We'll  hap  on  her  by-and- 
by." 

"And    s'help    me    when    we    do,"    Lunt    answered. 


And  then,  mercifully,  the  voices  grew  indistinct.  The 
flicker  of  the  lanthorn  was  lost  among  the  trees.  With 
wonder  and  stupefaction  Henrietta  found  herself  alone, 
found  herself  faint,  gasping,  scarcely  sensible  —  but  safe  ! 
Safe! 

She  could  not  understand  the  why  or  the  wherefore  of 
her  escape,  and  she  had  not  energy  to  try  to  fathom  it. 
She  lay  a  few  seconds  to  rest  and  clear  her  head,  and 
then  she  thought  that  she  would  try  to  rise.  She  was  on 
her  knees,  and  was  supporting  herself  with  one  hand 
against  the  cold,  rough  surface  of  the  wall,  when  every 
fibre  in  her  cried  suddenly,  Alarm  !  Alarm  !  He  was 
coming  back.  Yes,  he  was  coming  back,  leaping  and 
running,  bursting  his  way  through  the  undergrowth. 
And  she  understood.  He  had  led  the  others  away  and 
he  was  coming  back  —  alone  ! 

She  fell  back  feeling  deadly  faint.  Then  she  tried  to 
rise,  but  she  could  not,  and  she  screamed.  She  screamed 
hoarsely  once  and  again,  and,  oh,  joy  !  even  as  the  gipsy 
clambered  over  the  stile,  sprang  into  the  road  and  came 
to  seize  her,  and  all  her  being  arose  in  revolt  against 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  413 

him,  a  voice  answered  her,  feet  came  racing  up  the  road, 
a  man  appeared,  she  was  no  longer  alone. 

It  was  the  chaplain,  panting  and  horrified.  He  had 
been  the  first  to  be  alarmed  by  the  woman's  tale,  and 
running  out  of  the  house  unarmed  and  hatless  he  had 
come  in  time,  in  the  nick  of  time!  Across  her  lifeless 
body,  for  at  last  she  had  swooned  quite  away,  the  gipsy 
and  he  looked  at  one  another  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
And  without  warning,  without  a  word  said,  the  gipsy 
came  at  him  like  a  wildcat,  a  knife  in  his  hand.  Sut- 
ton  saw  the  gleam  of  the  weapon,  and  the  gleam  of  the 
man's  savage  eyes,  but  he  held  his  ground  gallantly.  With 
a  yell  for  help  he  let  the  man  close  with  him,  and,  more 
by  luck  than  skill,  he  parried  the  blow  which  the  other 
had  dealt  him  with  the  knife.  But  the  gipsy,  finding 
his  arm  clutched  and  held,  struck  his  enemy  with  his 
left  fist  a  heavy  blow  between  the  eyes.  The  poor  chap- 
lain fell  stunned  and  breathless. 

The  gipsy  stood  over  him  an  instant  to  see  if  he  would 
rise.  But  he  did  not  move ;  and  the  man  turned  to  the 
girl,  who  lay  insensible  beside  the  wall.  He  stooped  to 
raise  her,  with  the,  intention  of  putting  her  over  the 
wall.  But  in  the  act  he  heard  a  shout,  and  he  lifted  his 
head  to  listen,  supposing  that  his  comrades  had  got  wind 
of  the  skirmish. 

It  was  not  his  comrades;  for  despairing  of  retaking 
the  girl,  they  had  hurried  back  to  the  house  to  attend  to 
their  own  safety.  He  stooped  again;  but  this  time  he 
heard  the  patter  of  footsteps  coming  up  the  road,  and  a 
man  came  in  sight  in  the  moonlight.  With  every  pas- 
sion roused,  and  determined,  since  he  had  risked  so 
much,  that  he  would  not  be  balked,  the  gipsy  lifted  the 
girl  none  the  less,  and  had  raised  her  almost  to  the  level 


414  THROUGH  THE  WOOD 

of  the  top  of  the  wall,  when  the  man  shouted  anew.  Per- 
force the  ruffian  let  the  girl  down  again,  and  with  a  snarl 
of  rage  turned  and  faced  the  newcomer  with  his  knife. 

But  Clyne — for  it  was  he — had  not  come  unarmed. 
For  many  days  he  had  not  gone  so  much  as  a  step  un- 
armed. And  the  stranger's  attitude  as  he  let  the  girl 
fall,  and  the  gleam  of  his  knife,  were  enough.  The  man 
rushed  at  him,  as  he  had  rushed  at  the  chaplain,  with 
the  ferocity  of  a  wild  beast.  But  Clyne  met  him  with  a 
burst  of  flame  and  shot,  and  then  with  a  second  shot; 
and  the  gipsy  whirled  round  with  a  muffled  cry  and  fell 
— at  first  it  seemed  backwards.  But  when  he  reached 
the  ground  he  lay  limp  and  doubled  up  with  his  face  to 
his  knees,  and  one  arm  under  him. 

Clyne,  with  the  smoking  pistol  in  his  hand,  bent  over 
him,  ready,  if  he  moved,  to  beat  out  his  brains.  But 
there  was  no  need  of  that  third  blow,,  which  he  would 
have  given  with  hearty  good-will.  And  he  turned  to  the 
girl.  Something,  perhaps  the  pistol-shot,  had  brought 
her  to  herself.  She  had  raised  herself  against  the  wall, 
and  holding  it,  was  looking  wildly  about  her ;  not  at  the 
dead  man,  nor  at  the  chaplain,  who  stirred  and  groaned. 
But  at  Clyne.  And  when  he  approached  her  she  threw 
herself  on  his  breast  and  clung  to  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  me  go !    Oh,  don't  let  me  go !"  she  cried. 

He  tried  to  soothe  her,  he  tried  to  pacify  her ;  keeping 
himself  between  her  and  the  prostrate  man. 

"I  won't,"  he  said.  "I  won't.  You  are  quite  safe. 
You  are  quite  safe." 

He  had  fired  with  a  hand  as  steady  as  a  rock,  but  his 
voice  shook  now. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  me  go !"  she  repeated  hysterically.  "  Oh, 
don't  let  me  go  !" 


THROUGH  THE  WOOD  415 

"You  are  safe !  you  are  safe !"  he  assured  her,  holding 
her  more  closely,  and  yet  more  closely  to  him. 

And  when  Bishop  and  Long  Tom  Gilson,  and  three  or 
four  others,  came  up  at  a  run,  breathing  fire  and  slaugh- 
ter, he  was  still  supporting  her;  and  she  was  crying  to 
him,  in  a  voice  that  went  to  the  men's  hearts,  "Not  to 
let  her  go  !  Not  to  let  her  go !" 

Alas,  too,  that  was  the  sight  which  met  the  poor  chap- 
lain's swimming  gaze  when  he  came  to  himself,  and, 
groaning,  felt  the  bump  between  his  eyes — the  bump 
which  he  had  got  in  her  defence. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVI 

TWO  OP  A  RACE 

IT  was  Thursday,  and  three  days  had  passed  since  the 
Sunday,  the  day  of  many  happenings,  which  had  cleared 
up  the  mystery  and  restored  Henrietta  to  Mrs.  Gilson's 
care.  The  frost  still  held,  the  air  was  brisk  and  clear. 
The  Langdale  Pikes  lifted  themselves  sharp  and  glitter- 
ing from  the  line  of  grey  screes  that  run  southward  to 
Wetherlamb  and  the  Coniston  Mountain.  A  light  air 
blew  down  the  lake,  ruffling  the  open  water,  and  bedeck- 
ing the  leafless  woods  on  Wray  Point  with  a  fringe  of 
white  breakers.  The  morning  was  a  perfect  winter 
morning,  the  sky  of  that  cloudless,  but  not  over-deep 
blue,  which  portends  a  long  and  steady  frost.  Horses' 
hoofs  rang  loud  on  the  road ;  and  rooks  gathered  where 
they  had  passed.  Men  who  stopped  to  talk  hit  their 
palms  together  or  swung  their  arms.  The  larger  and 
wiser  birds  had  started  betimes  for  salt  water  and  the 
mussel  preserves  on  the  Cartmel  Sands. 

The  inquest  on  the  gipsy  had  been  held,  but  something 
perfunctorily,  after  the  fashion  of  the  day.  Captain 
Clyne  and  the  chaplain  had  told  their  stories,  and  after 
a  few  words  from  the  coroner,  a  verdict  of  justifiable 
homicide  had  been  heartily  given,  and  the  jury  had  re- 
solved itself  into  a  "free  and  easy"  in  the  tap-room; 
while  the  coroner  had  delivered  himself  of  much  wis- 
dom, and  laid  down  much  law  in  Mrs.  Gilson's  snuggery. 

Henrietta  had  not  been  made  to  appear;  for  carried 
41G 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  417 

upstairs,  in  a  state  as  like  death  as  life,  on  Sunday  even- 
ing, she  had  kept  her  room  until  this  morning.  She 
would  fain  have  kept  it  longer,  but  there  were  reasons 
against  that.  And  now,  with  the  timidity  which  a  re- 
treat from  every-day  life  breeds — and  perhaps  with  some 
flutterings  of  the  heart  on  another  account — she  was 
pausing  before  her  looking-glass,  and  trying  to  gather 
courage  to  descend  and  face  the  world. 

She  was  still  pale ;  and  when  she  met  her  own  eyes  in 
the  mirror,  a  quivering  smile,  a  something  verging  on 
the  piteous  in  her  face,  told  of  nerves  which  time  had  not 
yet  steadied.  Possibly,  her  reluctance  to  go  down,  though 
the  hour  was  late,  and  Mrs.  Gilson  would  scold,  had  a 
like  origin.  None  the  less,  she  presently  conquered  it, 
opened  her  door  and  descended ;  as  she  had  done  on  that 
morning  of  her  arrival,  a  few  weeks  back,  and  yet — oh, 
such  a  long  time  back ! 

Now,  as  then,  when  she  had  threaded  the  dark  pas- 
sages and  come  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Eogers's  room,  she 
paused  faint-hearted,  and,  with  her  hand  raised  to  the 
latch,  listened.  She  heard  no  sound,  and  she  opened  the 
door  and  went  in.  The  table  was  laid  for  one. 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and — cut  it  short  midway. 
For  Captain  Clyne  came  forward  from  one  of  the  win- 
dows at  which  he  had  been  standing. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  are  better,"  he  said  stiffly,  and  in 
a  constrained  tone,  "and  able  to  come  down." 

"Oh  yes,  thank  you,"  she  answered,  striving  to  speak 
heartily,  and  repressing  with  difficulty  that  proneness  of 
the  lip  to  quiver.  "I  think  I  am  quite  well  now.  Quite 
well !  I  am  sure,  after  this  long  time,  I  should  be." 

And  she  turned  away  and  affected  to  warm  her  hands 
at  the  fire. 


418  TWO  OF  A  RACB 

He  did  not  look  directly  at  her — he  avoided  doing  so. 
But  he  could  see  the  reflection  of  her  face  in  the  oval- 
framed  mirror,  as  she  stood  upright  again.  He  saw  that 
she  had  lost  for  the  time  the  creamy  warmth  of  com- 
plexion that  was  one  of  her  chief  beauties.  She  was  pale 
and  thin,  and  looked  ill. 

"You  have  been  very  severely  shaken,"  he  said.  "No 
doubt  you  feel  it  still !" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "a  little.    I  think  I  do." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  be  alone?" 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say  to  that.  Perhaps  she 
did  not  know  what  she  wished.  Her  lip  quivered.  This 
was  very  unlike  what  she  had  expected  and  what  she  had 
dreaded.  But  it  was  worse.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  her  answer — that  he  might  go.  What  could  she  say  ? 

"Just  as  you  like,"  she  murmured  at  last. 

"Oh,  but  I  wish  to  do  what  you  like !"  he  replied,  with 
a  little  more  warmth ;  but  still  awkwardly  and  with  con- 
straint. 

"So  do  I,"  she  replied. 

"I  shall  stay  then,"  he  answered.  And  he  lifted  a 
small  dish  from  the  hearth  and  carried  it  to  the  table. 
"I  had  Mrs.  Gilson's  orders  to  keep  this  hot  for  you," 
he  said. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you." 

"I  am  afraid,"  more  lightly,  "that  it  was  fear  of  Mrs. 
Gilson  weighed  on  me  as  much  as  anything." 

He  returned  to  the  hearth  when  he  had  seen  her  seated. 
And  she  began  her  breakfast  with  her  eyes  on  the  table. 
With  the  first  draught  of  coffee  a  feeling  of  warmth  and 
courage  ran  through  her;  and  he,  standing  with  his  el- 
bow on  the  mantel-piece  and  his  eyes  on  the  mirror,  saw 
the  change  in  her. 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  419 

"The  boy  is  better,"  he  said  suddenly.  "I  think  he 
will  do  now." 

"Yes?" 

"I  think  so.  But  he  will  need  great  care.  He  will 
not  be  able  to  leave  his  bed  for  a  day  or  two.  We  found 
your  brooch  pinned  inside  his  clothes." 

"Yes?" 

He  turned  sharply  and  for  the  first  time  looked  di- 
rectly at  her. 

"Of  course,  we  knew  why  you  put  it  there.  It  was 
good  of  you.  But  why — don't  you  ask  after  him,  Hen- 
rietta?" in  a  different  tone. 

She  felt  the  colour  rise  to  her  cheeks — and  she  wished 
it  anywhere  else. 

"I  saw  him  this  morning,"  she  murmured. 

"Oh!"  he  replied  in  surprise.  And  he  turned  to  the 
mirror  again.  "I  see." 

She  began  to  wish  that  he  would  leave  her,  for  his 
silence  made  her  horribly  nervous.  And  she  dared  not 
start  a  subject  herself,  because  she  could  not  trust  her 
voice.  The  hands  of  the  white-faced  clock  jerked  slowly 
on,  marking  the  seconds,  and  accentuating  the  silence. 
She  grew  so  nervous  at  last  that  she  could  not  lift  her 
eyes  from  her  plate,  and  she  ate  though  she  was  scarcely 
able  to  swallow,  because  she  dared  not  leave  off. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Anthony  Clyne  was  as  ill 
at  ease  as  she  was ;  and  oppressed,  moreover,  to  a  much 
greater  degree  by  the  memory  of  certain  scenes  which 
had  taken  place  in  that  room.  Her  nervousness  was  in 
part  the  reflection  of  his  constraint.  And  his  constraint 
arose  from  two  feelings  widely  different. 

The  long  silence  was  becoming  painful  to  both,  when 
he  forced  himself  to  break  it. 


420  TWO  OF  A  RACE 

"I  am  so  very,  very  deeply  beholden  to  you,"  he  said, 
in  a  constrained  tone,  "that — that  I  must  ask  you,  Hen- 
rietta, to  listen  to  me  for  a  few  minutes — even  if  it  be 
unpleasant  to  you." 

She  laughed  awkwardly. 

"If  it  is  only,"  she  answered,  "because  you  are  be- 
holden to  me — that — that  you  feel  it  necessary  to  thank 
me  at  length,  please  don't.  You  will  only  overwhelm 
me." 

"It  is  not  for  that  reason  only,"  he  said.  And  he 
knew  that  he  spoke,  much  against  his  will,  with  dreadful 
solemnity.  "No.  Naturally  we  must  have  much  to  say 
to  one  another.  I,  in  particular,  who  owe  to  you " 

"Please  let  that  be,"  she  protested. 

"But  I  cannot.  I  cannot!"  he  repeated.  "You  have 
done  me  so  great  a  service,  at  a  risk  so  great,  and  under 
circumstances  so — so " 

"So  remarkable,"  she  cried,  with  something  of  her  old 
girlish  manner,  "that  you  cannot  find  words  in  which  to 
describe  them!  Then  please  don't."  And  then,  more 
seriously :  "I  did  not  do  what  I  did  to  be  thanked." 

"Then  why?"  he  asked  quickly.  "Why  did  you  do 
it?" 

"Did  you  think,"  she  protested,  "that  I  did  it  to  be 
thanked?" 

"No,  but — why  did  you  do  it,  Henrietta?"  he  asked 
persistently.  "Such  a  risk,  such  men,  such  circum- 
stances, might  have  deterred  any  woman.  Nay,  almost 
any  man." 

She  toyed  with  her  teaspoon;  there  had  come  a  faint 
flush  of  colour  into  her  cheeks. 

"I  think  it  was — I  think  it  was  just  to  reinstate  my- 
self," she  murmured. 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  421 

"You  mean?" 

"You  gave  me  to  understand,"  she  explained,  "that 
you  thought  ill  of  me.  And  I  wished  you  to  think  well 
of  me;  or  better  of  me,  I  should  say,  for  I  did  not  ex- 
pect you  to  think  quite  well  of  me  after — you  know !"  in 
some  confusion. 

"You  wished  to  be  reinstated?" 

"Yes." 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "how  much  you  mean  by 
that." 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  she  answered,  looking  at 
him. 

"Yes,  but  do  you  mean  that  you — wish  to  be  rein- 
stated altogether  ?" 

She  did  not  remove  her  eyes  from  his  face,  but  she 
blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand,"  she  said  with  a 
slight  air  of  offence. 

"No?"  he  said.  "And  perhaps  I  did  not  quite  mean 
that.  What  I  did  mean,  and  do  mean,  what  I  am  hop- 
ing, what  I  am  looking  forward  to,  Henrietta "  and 

there  he  broke  off. 

He  seemed  to  find  it  necessary  to  begin  again : 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  explain,"  he  said  more  soberly. 
"You  told  me  that  morning  by  the  lake  some  home- 
truths,  you  remember?  You  showed  me  that  what  had 
happened  was  not  all  your  fault;  was  perhaps  not  at  all 
your  fault.  And  you  showed  me  this  with  so  much  energy 
and  power,  that  I  went  away  with  the  first  clear  im- 
pression of  you  I  had  had  in  my  life.  Yes,  with  the  feel- 
ing that  I  had  never  known  you  until  then.  He  dropped 
his  eyes,  and  looked  thoughtfully  at  something  on  the 
table.  "And  one  of  the  things  I  remember  best,  and 


422     .  TWO  OF  A  RACE 

which  I  shall  always  remember,  was  your  saying  that 
I  had  never  paid  any  court  to  you." 

"It  was  true,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

And  she  too  did  not  look  at  him,  but  kept  her  eyes 
bent  on  the  spoon  with  which  she  toyed. 

"Yes.  Well,  if  you  will  let  the  old  state  of  things  be  so 
far  reinstated  as  to — let  me  begin  to  pay  my  court  to  you 
now,  I  am  not  confident,  I  am  very  far  from  confident, 
that  I  can  please  you.  I  am  rather  old,  for  one  thing" — 
with  a  rueful  laugh — "to  make  love  gracefully,  and 
rather  stiff  and — political.  But  owing  to  the  trouble  I 
have  brought  upon  you  in  the  past " 

"I  never  said  but  that  we  both  brought  it!"  Henrietta 
objected  suddenly. 

"Well,  whoever  brought  it " 

"We  both  brought  it !"  she  repeated  obstinately. 

"Very  well.    I  mean  only  that  the  trouble " 

"Makes  it  unlikely  that  I  shall  find  another  hus- 
band ?"  she  said.  "Pray  be  frank  with  me !  That,"  ris- 
ing and  going  to  the  window,  and  then  turning  to  con- 
front him,  "is  what  you  mean,  is  it  not?  That  is  ex- 
actly what  you  mean,  I  am  sure  ?" 

"  Something  of  that  kind,  perhaps,"  he  admitted. 

"But  you  forget  Mr.  Sutton!"  she  said — and  paused. 
She  took  one  step  forward,  and  her  eyes  shone.  "You 
forget  Mr.  Sutton,  Captain  Clyne.  The  gentleman  to 
whom  you  handed  me  over !  To  whom  you  gave  so  clear 
a  certainty  that  I  was  for  the  first  comer  who  was  wil- 
ling. He  is  willing,  quite  willing !" 

"But " 

"And  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  did  not  behave  gal- 
lantly on  Sunday  night !  I  am  told " 

"He  behaved  admirably." 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  423 

"And  he  is  willing!"  she  flung  the  word  at  him — 
"quite  willing  to  marry  me — disgraced  as  I  am!  As 
you  have  always,  always  hinted  I  am !  And  not  out  of 
pity,  Captain  Clyne.  Let  us  be  frank  with  one  another. 
You  were  very  frank  with  me  once — more  than  frank." 
She  held  out  her  wrist,  which  was  still  faintly  discol- 
oured. "When  a  man  does  that  to  a  woman,"  she  said, 
"she  either  loves  him,  sir,  or  hates  him." 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly — very  slowly.  "I  see.  Your 
mind  is  made  up,  then " 

"That  I  will  not  accept  your  kind  offer  to — pay  your 
court  to  me?"  she  answered,  with  derision.  "Certainly. 
I  have  no  mind  to  be  wooed  by  you!"  Again  she  held 
out  her  wrist.  "You  know  the  stale  proverb:  'He  that 
will  not  when  he  may,  when  he  will  he  shall  have  nay !'  " 
And  she  made  him  a  little  bow,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her 
cheeks  bright. 

He  turned  his  back  on  her,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  from  the  window  which  was  the  nearer  to  the 
fire — the  one  looking  over  the  lake.  The  words  of  her 
proverb — stale  enough  in  truth — ran  very  sorrowfully  in 
his  ears.  "He  that  will  not  when  he  may !  He  that  will 
not  when  he  may !"  No,  he  might  have  known  that  she 
was  not  one  to  forget.  He  might  have  known  that  the 
words  he  had  said,  and  the  things  that  he  had  done, 
would  rankle.  And  that  she  who  had  not  hesitated  to 
elope — to  punish  him  for  his  neglect  of  her — would  not 
hesitate  to  punish  him  for  worse  than  neglect.  He  stood 
a  long  minute  watching  the  tiny  waves  burst  into  white 
lines  at  the  foot  of  Hayes  Woods.  No,  she  could  not  for- 
get— nor  forgive.  But  she  could  act,  she  had  acted,  as 
if  she  had  done  both.  She  had  saved  his  child.  She  had 
risked  her  life  for  it.  And  if  she  had  done  that  with  this 


424  TWO  OF  A  RACE 

resentment,  this  feeling  in  her  heart,  if  she  had  done  it, 
moved  only  hy  the  desire  to  show  him  that  he  had  mis- 
judged her — in  a  sense  it  was  the  nobler  act,  and  one 
like — ay,  he  owned  it  sorrowfully — like  herself!  At 
any  rate,  it  did  not  become  him  to  cast  a  word  of  re- 
proach at  her.  She  had  saved  his  child. 

He  turned  at  length,  and  looked  at  her.  He  saw  that 
her  figure  had  lost  its  elation,  and  her  cheeks  their  col- 
our. She  was  leaning  against  the  side  of  the  window, 
and  looked  tired  and  ill,  and  almost  as  she  had  looked 
when  she  came  into  the  room.  His  heart  melted. 

"I  would  like  you  to  know  one  thing,"  he  said,  "be- 
fore I  go.  Your  triumph  is  greater,  Henrietta,  than  you 
think,  and  your  revenge  more  complete.  It  is  no  ques- 
tion of  pity  with  me,  but  of  love."  He  paused,  and 
laughed  awry.  "The  worse  for  me,  you  will  say,  and 
the  better  for  you.  Vae  victis!  Still,  even  if  you  hate 
me " 

"I  did  not  say  that  I  hated  you !" 

"You  said " 

"I  did  not!  I  did  not!"  she  repeated,  with  a  queer 
little  laugh.  And  she  sat  down  on  the  window  seat,  and 
turned  quickly  with  a  pettish  movement,  so  that  he 
could  only  see  the  side  of  her  face.  "I  said  nothing  of 
the  kind." 

"But " 

"I  said  something  very  different!" 

"You  said " 

"I  said  that  when  a  man  pinches  a  girl's  wrist  black 
and  blue,  and  swears  at  her — yes,  Captain  Clyne,"  firm- 
ly, "you  swore  at  me,  and  called  me " 

"  "Don't!" he  said. 

"I  only  said,"  she  continued  breathlessly,  "that  when 


SHE    WAS    LEANING    AGAINST    THE    SIDE    OF    THE    WINDOW 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  425 

a  man  does  that,  the  woman  either  loves  him  or  hates 
him !" 

"Henrietta!" 

"  Captain  Clyne!" 

After  a  long  pause,  "I  think  I  understand  you,"  he 
said  slowly,  "but  if  you — if  there  were  any  feeling,  the 
least  feeling  of  that  kind  on  your  part,  you  would  not 
have  forbidden  me  to — to  think  of  seeking  you  for  my 
wife." 

"I  didn't!"  she  answered.  "I  told  you  that  you 
should  not  pay  your  court  to  me.  And  you  shall  not! 
You  cannot,"  half  laughing  and  half  crying,  "woo  what's 
won,  can  you?  If  you  still  think  it  is  worth  the  win- 
ning !  Only,"  stopping  him  by  a  gesture  as  he  came  to- 
wards her,  "you  are  not  to  give  me  over  to  Mr.  Sutton 
again,  whatever  I  do !  You  must  promise  me  that." 

"I  won't !"  he  said. 

"You  are  quite  sure,  sir?  However  I  behave?  And 
even  if  I  run  away  from  you  ?" 

"Quite  sure!" 

And  a  few  minutes  later,  "Poor  Sutton!"  he  said. 
"We  must  try  to  make  it  up  to  him." 

She  laughed. 

"It  is  a  good  thing  you  did  not  set  out  to  woo  me," 
she  answered.  "For  you  would  not  have  shone  at  it. 
Make  it  up  to  him  indeed !  Make  it  up  to  him !  What  a 
thing,  sir,  to  say  to — me !" 


It  was  not  made  up  to  Mr.  Sutton;  though  the  best 
living  that  could  be  procured  by  an  exchange  with  the 
Bishop  of  Durham — and  there  were  fat  livings  in  Dur- 
ham in  those  days,  and  small  blame  if  a  man  held  two 


426  TWO  OF  A  RACE 

of  them — was  found  for  the  chaplain.  He  married,  too, 
a  lady  of  the  decayed  house  of  Conyers  of  Sockburn,  be- 
side which  the  Darners  and  the  Clynes  were  upstairs. 
And  so  both  in  his  fortune  and  his  wife's  family  he  did 
as  well — almost — as  he  had  hoped  to  do.  But  though 
he  accepted  his  patron's  gift,  he  came  seldom  to  Clyne 
Old  Hall;  and  some  held  him  ungrateful.  Moreover,  a 
little  later,  when  to  be  a  radical  was  not  counted  quite 
so  dreadful  a  thing,  he  turned  radical  in  all  but  the 
white  hat.  And  Clyne  was  disappointed,  but  not  sur- 
prised. Henrietta,  however,  understood.  Though  chil- 
dren running  about  her  knees  had  tamed  her  wildness 
and  caged  her  pride,  she  was  still  a  woman,  and  the 
memory  of  a  past  conquest  was  not  ungrateful.  She  had 
no  desire  to  see  the  pale  replica  of  Mr.  Pitt,  but  she 
sometimes  thought  of  him,  and  always  kindly  and  with 
gratitude. 

There  was  a  third  lover,  of  whom  she  never  thought 
without  unhappiness. 

"You  will  never  tell  the  children?  You  will  never 
tell  the  children  ?"  was  her  prayer  to  her  husband  when 
Walterson  was  in  question. 

And  though  he  answered  with  gravity,  "Not  unless 
you  do  it  again,  my  dear,"  the  sting  of  remembrance  did 
not  cease  to  rankle. 

Walterson  was  traced  to  Leith — and  thence  to  Hol- 
land. There  the  trail  was  lost,  and  it  is  believed  that  he 
did  not  live  to  return  to  England.  Whether  he  did  re- 
turn or  not — and  Bow  Street,  and  Mr.  Bishop  in  par- 
ticular, kept  watch  for  him  long — he  never  re-entered 
Henrietta's  life.  As  the  memory  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution faded  from  men's  minds,  the  struggle  for  reform 
fell  into  more  reputable  and  less  violent  hands.  Silly 


TWO  OF  A  RACE 

and  turbulent  men  of  the  type  of  him  who  had  turned 
the  girl's  young  head  no  longer  counted ;  or,  rising  to  the 
top  at  moments  of  public  excitement,  vanished  as 
quickly,  and  no  man  knew  whither. 

Giles  and  Lunt  were  not  taken  on  that  Sunday  night. 
They  escaped,  it  was  supposed,  to  Scotland,  by  way  of 
Patterdale  and  the  Moors.  Less  fortunate,  however, 
than  Walterson,  they  returned  to  London  and  fell  in 
again  with  Thistlewood.  They  yielded  to  the  fascination 
of  that  remarkable  and  unhappy  man,  took  part  in  his 
schemes,  and  were  taken  with  him  in  the  loft  over  the 
stable  in  Cato  Street,  when  the  attempt  to  murder  the 
cabinet  at  Lord  Harrowby's  house  in  Grosvenor  Square 
miscarried.  He  and  they  got  a  fair  trial,  but  little  pity. 
'And  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  upon  the  scaffold  in 
the  Old  Bailey,  they  thought  much  of  the  lonely  house  in 
the  hollow  at  Troutbeck,  or  of  the  helpless  woman  whom 
they  had  terrorised.  To  their  credit,  be  it  said,  they 
died  more  worthily  than  they  had  lived ;  and  with  them 
came  to  a  close  the  movement  which  sought  to  reach  re- 
form by  the  road  of  violence,  and  to  that  end  held  no 
instruments  too  cheap  or  vile. 

Tyson  came  out  of  the  adventure  a  wiser  and  perhaps 
a  better  man.  For  on  his  return  from  the  north  he 
found  it  hard  to  free  himself  from  the  charge  of  com- 
plicity in  the  acts  of  those  who  had  used  his  house;  nor 
did  he  succeed  until  he  had  lain  some  weeks  in  Appleby 
gaol.  He  would  fain  have  avenged  himself  on  Bess,  but 
for  reasons  to  be  stated,  he  could  not  enjoy  this  satis- 
faction. And  his  neighbours  sent  him  to  Coventry.  Had 
he  been  a  strong  man  he  might  have  defied  them  and 
public  opinion.  But  he  was  only  a  braggart,  and  that 
which  must  have  embittered  many,  tamed  him.  He 


428  TWO  OF  A  RACE 

turned  to  his  wife  for  comfort,  sought  his  home  more 
than  before,  and  gradually  settled  down  into  a  toler- 
able citizen  and  a  high  Tory. 

Bess  saved  herself  by  her  own  wit  and  courage.  The 
Monday's  light  saw  her  dragged  to  Kendal  prison,  where 
they  were  not  so  gentle  with  her  as  they  had  been  with 
Henrietta.  Her  story  went  with  her,  and,  "They  say  you 
stole  a  child,"  the  little  girl  murmured,  standing  at  her 
knee  and  staring  at  her,  "and  '11  be  hanged  at  the  March 
fair." 

"Not  I,"  said  Bess.  "It's  almost  a  pity,  too,  ain't  it? 
There'd  be  a  fine  crowd  to  see !" 

The  child's  eyes  sparkled. 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "There'd  be  a  crowd,  too." 

But  Bess  played  a  fine  stroke.  She  sent  for  her  rival 
on  the  Friday,  and  Henrietta,  twenty-four  hours  be- 
trothed, and  very  far  from  unhappy,  took  that  road  once 
more,  and  went  to  her. 

"I  saved  you,"  said  Bess,  with  coolness.  "Yes,  I  did. 
Don't  deny  it !  Now  do  you  save  me." 

And  Henrietta  moved  heaven  and  earth  and  Anthony 
Clyne  to  save  her.  She  succeeded.  Bess  went  abroad — 
to  join  Walterson,  it  was  rumoured.  If  so,  she  returned 
without  him,  for  on  the  old  miser's  death  she  appeared 
on  Windermere,  sold  Starvecrow  Farm  and  all  its  be- 
longings, and  removed  to  the  south,  but  to  what  part  is 
not  known,  nor  are  any  particulars  of  her  later  fortunes 
within  reach.  Some  said  that  she  played  a  part  in  the 
great  riots  at  Bristol  twelve  years  later,  but  the  evidence 
is  inconclusive,  and  dark  women  possessing  a  strain  of 
gipsy  blood  are  not  uncommon. 

Nor  are  women  with  a  sharp  tongue  and  a  warm  heart. 
Yet  when  Mrs.  Gilson  died  in  the  year  of  those  very 


TWO  OF  A  RACE  429 

riots,  and  at  a  good  age,  there  was  a  gathering  to  bury 
her  in  Troutbeck  graveyard  as  great  as  if  she  had  been 
a  Lowther.  The  procession,  horse  and  foot,  was  a  mile 
long.  And  when  those  who  knew  her  least  wondered 
whence  all  these  moist  eyes  and  this  flocking  to  do  hon- 
our to  a  woman  who  had  been  quick  of  temper  and  rough 
of  tongue — ay,  were  it  to  Squire  Bolton  of  Storrs,  or  the 
rich  Mr.  Rogers  himself — there  was  one  who  came  a 
great  distance  to  the  burying  who  could  have  solved  the 
riddle. 

It  was  Henrietta. 


THE 


THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE 

A  ROMANCE 
By  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  A   GENTLEMAN   OF   FRANCE,"   "  UNDER  THE    RED    ROBE," 
"COUNT   HANNIBAL,"   ETC.,    ETC. 


With  a  Frontispiece,  Crown  8vo.    $1.5O 


"This  is  an  interesting  and,  at  times,  highly  dramatic  book.  It  is 
superior,  even,  to  'Under  the  Red  Robe'  and  'A  Gentleman  of  France,' 
which  are  reckoned  the  two  most  striking  of  his  novels.  A  marked  and 
skilful  feature  of  '  The  Abbess  of  Vlaye '  is  that  it  rises  constantly  towards 
a  climax;  indeed,  the  last  part  of  the  book  is  notably  stronger  than  the 
earlier  part.  .  .  .  One  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Weyman's  writing,  empha- 
sized in  this,  his  latest  book,  is  its  comprehension  of  detail  in  a  few  sen- 
tences. .  .  ." — Evening  Post,  New  York. 

"...  Mr.  Weyman  demonstrates  once  more  that  not  only  can  this 
kind  of  romantic  novel  be  made  conspicuously  fascinating,  but  he  estab- 
lishes himself  anew  as  easily  the  foremost  writer  of  this  kind  of  fiction. 
He  has  imagination  and  in  unusual  degree  the  art  of  investing  a  period 
with  atmosphere.  This  gallant  tale  has  color,  movement  and  spirit,  and 
is  well  told,  with  deft  touches  and  dramatic  situations,  adroitly  man- 
aged."— Times,  Brooklyn. 

"...  The  scene  in  the  next  to  the  last  chapter,  in  which  the  abbess 
and  her  captain  sit  at  table  together,  considering  their  plans,  is  developed 
by  the  author  with  all  his  art,  and  we  count  it  among  his  most  brilliant 
achievements.  'The  Abbess  of  Vlaye'  is  a  first-rate  piece  of  romantic 
narrative.  Its  heroine  is  a  type  true  to  history,  true  to  human  nature, 
and,  in  a  sinister  way,  altogether  fascinating." — Tribune,  New  York. 

"...  As  in  other  romances  based  on  French  history,  Mr.  Weyman 
displays  a  thorough  understanding  of  the  time,  the  place  and  the  people 
of  which  he  writes.  'The  Abbess  of  Vlaye,'  indeed,  is  worth  more  as  a 
picture  of  the  time  than  simply  as  a  romantic  story.  Either  phase,  how- 
ever, offers  much  of  absorbing  interest  even  to  the  most  jaded  reader  of 
historical  fiction." — Transcript,  Boston. 

".  .  .  the  most  interesting  that  he  has  written  for  several  years.  .  .  ." 
— Republican,  Springfield,  Mass. 

"...  There  is  the  charm  of  the  unusual  love  story  and  abundance  of 
exciting  adventures,  all  wrought  into  a  dramatic  unity.  The  author  is 
entirely  at  home,  and  makes  us  at  home,  in  the  story  of  the  period.  Since 
'A  Gentleman  of  France'  he  has  given  us  no  better  example  of  his 
talent." — Congregationalist. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


COUNT  HANNIBAL 

A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  COURT  OF  FRANCE 

BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE,"  "UNDER  THE  RED  ROBB," 
"THE  CASTLE  INN,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece.    Crown  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  S1.5O 

"  It  is  very  seldom  that  one  runs  across  a  historical  novel  the  plot  of  which  is 
so  ably  sustained,  the  characters  so  strongly  drawn,  the  local  color  or  atmosphere 
so  satisfactory.  .  .  .  '  Count  Hannibal '  is  the  strongest  and  most  interest- 
ing novel  as  yet  written  by  this  popular  author." — BOSTON  TIMES. 

•  "  Stanley  J.  Weyman  has  had  hundreds  of  imitators  since  he  wrote  '  A  Gen- 
tleman of  France,'  but  no  man  has  yet  surpassed  him.  I  know  of  no  book  in 
the  whole  list  of  popular  favorites  that  holds  one's  interest  more  intensely  or 
more  continuously  than  '  Count  Hannibal '  does.  And  what  an  insistent,  throat- 
gripping  interest  it  is  1 

What  is  the  use  of  hoping  for  a  decadence  of  the  craze  for  historical 
romances  so  long  as  the  public  is  fed  on  books  like  this  ?  Such  a  story  has  zest 
for  the  most  jaded  palate  ;  nay,  it  can  hold  the  interest  even  of  a  book  reviewer. 
From  the  first  page  to  the  last  there  is  not  a  moment  when  one's  desire  to  finish 
the  book  weakens.  Along  with  the  ordinary  interest  of  curiosity  there  goes  that 
of  a  delightful  and  unique  love  story  involving  no  little  skill  in  character  deline- 
ation."— RECORD- HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

"  A  spirited,  tersely  interesting  and  most  vivid  story  of  scenes  and  incidents 
and  portrayals  of  various  characters  that  lived  and  fought  and  bled  in  the  lurid 
days  that  saw  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  .  .  .  This  is  Mr.  Weyman 's 
most  graphic  and  realistic  novel." — PICAYUNE,  NEW  ORLEANS. 

"Mr.  Weyman  has  surpassed  himself  in  '  Count  Hannibal. '  The  scene  of 
the  story  is  laid  chiefly  in  Paris,  at  the  time  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew. .  .  .  We  are  made  to  grasp  the  soul  of  Count  Hannibal  and  are  tacitly 
asked  to  let  its  envelope  take  care  of  itself.  .  .  .  Never  has  Mr.  Weyman 
achieved,  in  fact,  a  higher  degree  of  verisimilitude.  Count  Hannibal  may  leave 
us  breathless  with  his  despotic  methods,  but  he  is  not  abnormal ;  he  is  one  of  the 
Frenchmen  who  shared  the  temper  which  made  the  St.  Bartholomew,  and  he  is  in- 
tensely human  too  .  .  .  how  the  tangle  of  events  in  which  he  and  half  a 
dozen  others  are  involved  is  straightened  out  we  refrain  from  disclosing.  The 
reader  who  once  takes  up  this  book  will  want  to  find  all  this  out  for  himself." 

— NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"A  story  in  Mr.  Weyman's  best  vein,  with  the  crimson  horror  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew as  an  historical  setting.  •  Count  Hannibal  '  is  a  worthy  companion  of 
•A  Gentleman  of  France '  and  '  The  Red  Cockade,'  and  Mr.  Weyman's  hand  is 
as  cunning  as  ever  in  fashioning  a  romance  which  will  send  a  thrill  through  the 
most  jaded  reader  and  keep  even  a  reviewer  from  his  bed." 

— BOOKMAN,  LONDON. 

"  The  book  is  rapid,  is  absorbing,  and  the  hero  is  a  distinctly  interesting 
character  in  himself,  apart  from  his  deeds  of  daring. " — ATHBN^EUM. 

"  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman's  '  Count  Hannibal '  is  fully  worthy  of  his  great  repu- 
tation— the  style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear ;  the  invention  of  subject  and  the 
turns  of  fortune  in  the  story  surprising;  above  all,  the  subtle  painting  of  a  man 
and  a  woman's  heart  is  done  with  inexhaustible  knowledge." — GUARDIAN. 

"  A  picturesque  and  vigorous  romance.  The  narrative  will  be  followed  with 
breathless  interest"— TIMES,  LONDON. 


LMTGMANS,  GBEEN,  &  (XX,  91-93  HPTH  AWTTE,  NEW  YOEK. 


LYSBETH 


A     TALE     OF     THE     DUTCH 

BY  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD 
AUTHOR  OF  "SHE,"  "KING  SOLOMON'S  MINES,"  "SWALLOW,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


With  26  Full-page  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  Cloth. 
Ornamental,  $1.5O 


"  Mr.  Rider  Haggard  at  his  very  best.  To  give  an  adequate  idea  of  the  story 
of '  Lysbeth '  we  should  require  many  columns  for  the  simple  catalogue  of  the 
adventures  and  perils  and  fights  and  escapes  which  make  up  one  of  the  most 
vigorous  and  exciting  tales  ever  written." — THE  BOOKMAN,  LONDON. 

"  It  is  a  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  and  sacrifice,  with  a  substantial  love 
element  and  strong  side  lights  upon  the  history  of  the  people  of  the  Netherlands 
during  the  period  in  which  the  masterly  drawn  characters  move.  It  is  told  in  a 
captivating  style  with  never-flagging  interest,  and  is  by  all  odds  the  best  story, 
as  it  will  probably  be  the  most  popular,  that  this  author  has  written." 

— NORTH  AMERICAN,  PHILADELPHIA. 

11 '  Lysbeth '  is  one  of  the  most  complete  romances  that  have  been  written ; 
.  .  .  it  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  .  .  .  stories  of  the  Spanish  misrule 
in  the  Netherlands.  It  includes  all  the  elements  for  romantic  narrative — 
affection,  peril,  bravery  and  villainy,  and  each  delineated  with  impressiveness 
that  moves  the  reader  to  alternate  emotions  of  admiration  and  detestation." 

—BOSTON  COURIER. 

"...  May  be  safely  called  the  best  story  of  this  popular  writer  ol 
Adventures.  His  vivid  and  audacious  style  of  picturing  thrilling  and  improb- 
able adventures  is  given  full  play.  The  historical  background  adds  much  to 
the  interest  of  the  story  if  one  is  not  interested  merely  in  adventures.  .  .  . 
The  illustrations  of  the  book  are  numerous  and  excellent. " 

—BOSTON  TRANSCRIPT. 

"...  A  novel  which  is  well  worth  reading.  Haggard  is  master  of  an 
inimitable  style.  He  is  a  wonderful  painter  of  battles,  and  the  description  oi 
the  night  with  Brant's  jewels  down  the  canal  and  out  to  sea  is  one  of  the  best 
descriptions  of  a  fight  ever  written.  '  Lysbeth '  is  a  novel  which  sustains  the 
interest  from  the  first  to  the  last  chapter." — SAN  FRANCISCO  BULLETIN. 

"  Here  is  a  really  strong  piece  of  work,  and  one  in  which  Rider  Haggard 
appears  on  an  entirely  new  ground.  .  .  .  The  historical  background  is 
sufficient  in  itself  to  make  a  story  of  entrancing  interest,  and  the  two  or  three 
romances  which  have  been  interwoven  with  it  make  the  book  one  of  the  most 
notable  even  among  the  many  excellent  works  of  recent  historical  fiction.  The 
Spanish  and  the  Dutch  types  are  both  true  to  life,  and  the  historical  setting  is 
remarkably  accurate  and  true.  Rider  Haggard  will  indeed  win  more  lasting 
renown  by  his  work  on  '  Lysbeth '  than  by  his  wierd  tales  which  were  the  talk  of 
a  day  and  then  forgotten." — LIVING  CHURCH. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  00,,  91-93  PITTfl  AVENUE,  NEW.  YOBK, 


PEARL-MAIDEN 

A  TALE  OF  THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM 
By  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD 


With  26  Full-page  Illustrations  by  Byam  Shaw 
Crown,  8vo,  cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50 


"...  The  story  is  of  absorbing  interest.  It  is  very  seldom 
that  one  runs  across  an  historical  novel,  the  plot  of  which  is  so  ably 
sustained.  Something  interesting  happens  in  every  chapter.  There 
are  some  delightful  love  passages,  for  no  novel  can  be  considered 
perfect  without  a  little  of  that.  The  story  has  zest  and  is  full  of 
adventure.  The  style  is  brilliant,  easy  and  clear.  The  narrative 
will  be  followed  with  breathless  interest.  The  book  is  beautifully 
printed,  handsomely  bound,  and  profusely  illustrated.  .  .  ." 

— EAU  CLAIRE  LEADER,  Wis. 

"...  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  that  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  for  several  years.  ...  It  contains  two  or  three  scenes 
of  uncommon  strength;  the  arena  scene,  with  the  Christian  martyrs, 
in  the  opening  pages,  the  sale  of  Roman  slave  girls,  near  the  close. 
It  is  not  a  book  which  can  be  read  through  in  a  brief  half  hour  or 
two,  and  it  does  not  permit  the  attention  to  wander.  Altogether  it 
is  a  book  which  deserves  a  wider  notice." 

— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER,  NEW  YORK. 

"...  there  is  vigor,  charm,  and  doubtless  historical  value 
in  the  pictures  which  Mr.  Haggard  draws  of  dramatic  events  and 
splendid  pageants  that  will  never  lose  interest  and  significance  to  a 
world  yet  shaken  by  their  influence." — OUTLOOK,  NEW  YORK. 

"  .  .  .  'Pearl  Maiden'  must  be  ranked  among  his  best 
books.  It  is  full  of  adventure,  of  terrible  dangers  met  on  the  battle- 
field and  elsewhere  ...  is  from  beginning  to  end  absorbing. 
Never  has  Mr.  Haggard  been  more  inventive  or  more  skilful.  His 
plot  is  well  constructed,  and  he  controls  the  evolution  of  the  story 
with  the  art  that  leaves  an  impression  of  absolute  naturalness.  We 
must  add  a  good  word  for  the  numerous  illustrations  by  Mr.  Byam 
Shaw.  They  are  cleverly  drawn  with  the  pen,  but  they  are  even 
more  to  be  praised  for  the  freshness  and  variety  with  which  they 
have  been  designed." — NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"  .  .  .  '  Pearl  Maiden  '  is  a  more  convincing  story  than  any 
he  has  written  about  imaginary  kingdoms  .  .  .  there  is  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  rival  the  popularity  of  'She'  and  'King 
Solomon's  Mines,'  and  in  any  event  it  will  be  sure  to  find  many  fas- 
cinated readers.  ...  It  is  the  best  story  Mr.  Haggard  has 
written  in  recent  years." — REPUBLICAN,  SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,    91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,    NEW  YORK 


THE   MANOR   FARM 

By  M.  E.  FRANCIS  (Mrs.    FRANCIS   BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  PASTORALS  OF  DORSET,"   "  FIANDER's  WIDOW,"  ETC. 


With  Frontispiece  by  Claud  C.  Du  Pre  Cooper.    Crown  8vo, 
cloth,  ornamental,  $1.5O 


"  Quaint  humor  of  the  richest  quality  is  written  in  the  pages  of  Mrs.  Blun- 
dell's  new  book.  .  .  .  When  two  great  and  well-to-do  cousins  plan  the 
welfare  of  their  names  needs  the  marriage  of  their  children,  the  trouble  begins. 
No  one  has  yet  shown  greater  skill  than  our  author  in  weaving  the  green  and 
gold  pattern  of  young  life.  The  growth  of  these  two  young  people  from  child- 
hood, the  betrothal,  the  almost  necessary  hitch  in  affairs,  for  such  is  human 
nature,  the  very  natural  solution,  Mrs.  Blundell  has  made  delightful,  humorous, 
and  wholly  artistic.  It  is  the  finest  of  character  drawing,  for  the  men  and  women 
are  not  too  proud  to  be  human,  nor  bad  enough  to  be  uncompanionable. " 

— LIVING  CHURCH,  MILWAUKEE. 

"  A  real  treat  is  in  store  for  the  readers  of '  The  Manor  Farm.'  .  .  .  It  is 
a  naive  and  picturesque  story  of  English  country  life,  with  just  enough  dialect 
to  show  that  the  people  are  genuine  country  folk." 

— CHURCHMAN,  NEW  YORK. 

11  ...  A  delightful  story,  told  in  a  delightful  way.  It  is  what  you  may 
call  a  complete  story  .  .  .  giving  you  quaint,  rich  and  wholesome  descrip- 
tion of  men  and  things  on  an  English  farm.  It  is  one  of  the  few  novels  of  the 
j  ear  worth  passing  around  the  family — or,  perhaps,  better  yet,  reading  in  th« 
ajsembled  family." — UNITY,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 

'•  Wholesome  and  sweet  as  the  scent  of  growing  clover  is  the  atmosphere  of 
this  charming  pastoral  tale  of  English  yeoman  life.  Written  in  the  easiest  and 
most  unaffected  style  it  narrates  with  much  animation  and  humor  the  fortunes 
of  two  branches  of  a  certain  family  of  farmer  folk.  .  .  .  The  '  love  interest '  is 
as  artless  and  innocent  as  it  is  engaging."— INDEPENDENT,  NEW  YORK. 

"  A  pretty  rustic  love  story  .  .  .  The  story  is  thoroughly  readable  and 
clean."— NEW  YORK  SUN. 

"  .  .  .  The  story  is  excellently  written.  The  English  peasants  who  figure 
in  it  speak  an  odd  local  dialect  that  gives  originality,  never  unnaturalness  to  the 
style  ...  the  story  ends  pleasantly,  as  such  an  idyl  should.  The  book 
rings  true,  and  deserves  a  cordial  reception."— RECORD-HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

"This  is  a  wholesome  romance  of  the  Dorsetshire  country.  It  concerns  the 
endeavors  of  two  farmer  cousins  to  bring  about  the  marriage  of  their  son  and 
daughter  for  the  welfare  of  the  old  manor  farm.  The  plot,  which  is  a  simple  one, 
is  developed  with  naturalness  and  humor  .  .  .  her  pictures  of  the  homely 
life  among  the  farms  and  dairies  are  delightful." — THE  OUTLOOK,  NKVV  YORK. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


LYCHGATE   HALL 

A  ROMANCE 
By  M.  E.  FRANCIS  (Mrs.   FRANCIS  BLUNDELL) 

AUTHOR  OF  "FIANDER'S  WIDOW,"  "PASTORALS  OF  DORSET,"  "THE 
MANOR  FARM,"  "  CHRISTIAN  THAL,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  $I.5O 

"The  pleasant  merrymakings,  the  romantic  duel-fighting  lovers,  the  intro- 
duction of  highway  robbery  as  a  minor  theme,  and  the  ruined  priory  as  setting 
for  the  whole  —all  these  things  read  with  a  reminiscent  quality  that  is  attractive. 
The  story  is  told  in  a  pleasant,  narrative  style,  which  reads  with  delightful  ease. 
The  descriptions  of  the  English  countryside  will  charm  the  reader  with  the 
fresh,  exquisite  beauty  they  represent  so  adequately.  ...  A  book  in  which 
there  is  nothing  to  criticise  and  much  to  praise.  .  .  ." 

— PUBLIC  LEDGER,  PHILADELPHIA. 

41  ...  Mrs.  Blundell  is  an  adept  in  holding  her  readers'  interest  to  the 
last  page.  Dorothy's  mystery  remains  unsolved  until  the  last  chapter,  and  at 
no  point  can  one  guess  which  of  her  suitors  will  win  the  prize.  In  the  meantime 
we  are  getting  a  spirited,  historically  accurate  view  of  English  country  life  two 
hundred  years  ago,  and  are  constantly  amused  by  side-lights  on  the  perennial 
human  drama.  The  character  drawing  is  unusually  good  for  a  romance,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  the  times  is  skillfully  sustained.  .  .  ." 

—RECORD-HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

"...  Remarkable  for  its  charming  descriptions  of  rural  life  and  of 
nature.  .  .  ."  — THE  CHURCHMAN. 

"Mrs.  Blundell  is  always  entertaining.  Her  plots  are  well  contrived,  she 
has  understanding  of  character  and  deftness  in  exploiting  it ;  she  has  humor, 
moreover,  and  unfailing  good  taste.  In  '  Lychgate  Hall '  she  has  gone  back 
for  her  material  to  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  has  succeeded  in  reproducing 
much  of  the  spirit  of  the  period,  as  well  as  much  quaintness  of  phraseology. 
She  recounts  a  romance  of  the  countryside,  one  full  of  mystery,  with  a  high-born 
girl  posing  as  a  dairywoman  in  the  heart  of  it.  Many  of  its  situations  are 
dramatic — witness  the  scene  where  the  beautiful  Dorothy  is  stoned  as  a  witch 
by  the  villagers — and  it  ends  with  an  agreeable  distribution  of  rewards  to  the 
deserving."  — NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"A  well-written  book,  with  quite  a  Charlotte  Bronte  flavor  to  it.    .     .     ." 

— COMMERCIAL  ADVERTISER. 

"A  well-sustained  romanct  of  English  life.    .  .    .   A  delightful  story.  .   .   ." 

— THE  OUTLOOK. 

"A  mysterious  and  beautiful  young  woman,  who  is  passionately  loved  by  a 
mysterious  stranger  and  a  rural  nobleman,  are  the  principals  of  this  stirring 
romance  of  the  '  good  old  times'  in  England  .  .  .  one  of  the  comparatively 
few  novels  which  create  a  desire  to  read  it  through  without  stopping,  the  story 
being  so  well  told  that  interest  is  aroused  at  the  very  outset  and  maintained 
until  the  ending."  —CHRONICLE-TELEGRAPH,  PITTSBURG. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


LOVE'S    PROXY 

A  NOVEL  OF   MODERN  LIFE 
By   RICHARD    BAGOT 

AUTHOR   OF  "  CASTING   OF   NETS,"   "  DONNA   DIANA,"  ETC. 


Crown  8vo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.5O 


"Mr.  Richard  Bagot  has  already  won  a  high  reputation  as  a  novelist,  And 
his  new  book  will  certainly  help  to  maintain  it." — DAILY  MAIL,  LONDON. 

''A  novel  of  modern  society,  by  a  writer  who  guides  a  keen  and  incisive 
pen,  and  who  is  an  artist  in  delineating  character  .  .  .  The  theme  is  strongly 
handled  and  the  unobtrusive  moral  makes  for  righteousness." 

— DETKOIT  FREE  PRESS. 

"Cleverly  conceived  and  told  in  the  true  comedy  vein  of  well-balanced 
humor  and  pathos.  The  dialogues  are  perfectly  natural.  This  is  of  the  very 
best  in  the  art  of  novel-writing.  A  more  pleasant  and  evenly  interesting  book 
it  is  not  often  one's  lot  to  read." — PUNCH,  LONDON. 

"...  A  person  loses  much  pleasure  who  has  not  known  the  charm  of 
'Donna  Diana,"  '  The  Casting  of  Nets,'  and  now  '  Love's  Proxy,'  which  is  to  my 
mind  the  most  fascinating  of  them  all.  This  time  Mr.  Bagot  has  left  his  beloved 
Italy,  which  he  knows  by  heart  .  .  .  and  betaken  himself  to  England  and 
English  society,  and  here  as  well  as  there  he  makes  a  marked  success.  .  . 
The  story  is  cleverly  conceived  and  brilliantly  executed.  Mr.  Bagot  is  an  artist, 
and  one  has  an  intense  and  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  plot,  his  philosophy,  and  his 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  the  world." — PORTLAND  DAILY  ADVERTISER. 

"...  He  has  portrayed  several  types  of  character  with  unerring  skill, 
and  has  written  a  novel  that  is  well  worth  while." — PRESS,  PHILADELPHIA. 

"...  The  story  herein  is  we'l  wrought :  its  style  distinguished  without 
fulsome  resort  to  epigram  ;  its  setting  is  that  of  English  politics  and  high  life. 
Its  heroine  is  scathless  and  enigmatical,  her  husband  is  rich  and  good,  her  lover 
never  forgets  himself  till  the  denouement,  and  even  then  recovers  in  time,  while 
she  is  always  stanch,  both  frank  and  politic.  Her  manner  of  treating  other 
women  is  a  lesson  in  fine  behavior.  .  ." — LITERARY  WORLD. 

"...  The  characters  introduced  are  mainly  from  the  higher  walks  of 
English  society,  and  they  are  skillfully  delineated  and  effectively  contrasted. 
The  heroine  is  fascinating,  but  not  very  lovable  until  near  the  conclusion  of  the 
story.  .  ." — THE  BEACON,  BOSTON. 

"  A  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  a  powerful  gift  of  portraying  it  is  observed 
in  '  Love's  Proxy.    .    .     " — BOSTON  HERALD. 

"...     a  story  out  of  the  well-worn  track,  well  told  and  interesting.     .     ." 

— TIMES,  GLOUCESTER,  MASS. 

"The  real  story  has  to  do  with  a  womnn  who  can't  love  her  husband  .  .  . 
Mr.  Bagot's  talent  is  versatile.  He  has  a  broad  humor  for  one  page  and  a  tear* 
compelling  touch  for  another.  Time  given  to  the  reading  of  '  Love's  Proxy' 
is  not  time  that  is  lost" — THE  CHICAGO  EVENING  POST. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &   CO.,  91-93   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


BARHAM  OF  BELTANA 

By    W.    E.    NORRIS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "MATRIMONY/'  "MLLE.  DE  MERSAC,"  ETC. 
CROWN  8vo.  $1.50. 


"The  man  who  gives  the  book  its  title,  a  rich  Tasmanian  with  a  grievance 
against  the  world,  has  certainly  about  as  disagreeable  a  way  with  him  as  could 
be  imagined.  But  Mr.  Norris  seems  to  have  made  up  his  mind  on  this  occasion 
to  tell  a  beguiling  love  story,  and  to  let  it  go  at  that.  .  .  .  For  the  rest,  this 
book  is  occupied  with  the  most  persuasively  romantic  transactions.  .  .  .  The 
result  is  a  capital  story,  written,  moreover,  with  a  literary  finish  which  we  have 
long  been  accustomed  to  expect  from  this  novelist.  It  is  the  kind  of  story  to 
win  popularity,  and  we  hope  that  the  success  it  is  pretty  likely  to  achieve  will 
convince  him  of  the  wisdom  of  continuing  in  his  present  mood." — N.  Y. 
TRIBUNE. 

"The  reader  is  genuinely  sorry  when  the  last  page  is  reached.     .     .     .     Th* 
book  has  an  added  charm  from  the  novelty  of  its  locality.     ...     is  a  thoi 
oughly  enjoyable  book.     Mr.   Norris  must   'do  it  again,'  and  the  next  time  he 
must  permit   us  to  tarry  longer  with   him  in  that   fascinating,   topsy-turvy   Eng- 
land lying  south  of  the  equator." — NEW  YORK  TIMES. 

'     .     .     .     We   have   a  story  that   is   quietly  effective   without   indulging  J 
dramatic   extravagance.     .     .     .     The  characters   are   few   in   number,   but  the) 
are  exceedingly  well  drawn.     .     .     .     It  is  just  the  one  to  entertain  during  a 
quiet  hour  after  the  cares  that  infest  the  day  have  departed." — BEACON,  BOSTON- 


ORRAIN 

By   S.   LEVETT-YEATS. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CHEVALIER  D'AURIAC/'  "THE  HONOR  OF  SAVELLI,"  ETC. 


CROWN  8vo.  $1.50. 

"...  it  is  one  sure  to  be  read  from  cover  to  cover,  if  the  light  holds 
out  to  burn.  .  .  .  One  is  irresistibly  led  on  through  the  crowding  dangers 
of  a  troublesome  time,  to  that  final  general  duel  which  ends  the  work.  It  is  a 
tale  of  France  with  a  Huguenot  heroine,  as  lovely  as  she  is  fearless,  while  the 
invincible  hero  belongs  to  the  Old  Faith.  .  .  .  Altogether,  an  unusually 
charming  and  absorbing  historical  romance." — KANSAS  CITY  STAR. 

"  ....  is  well  told  and  thrilling.  So,  too,  are  various  incidents  and 
passages  that  precede  and  lead  up  to  this  effective  climax.  And  not  the  least 
evident  art  of  'Orrain'  makes  some  of  the  participating  characters,  notably  the 
queen,  the  vidame  and  the  king's  favorite,  so  real  that  they  arouse  sharp  dis- 
taste or  sympathy  and  linger  in  the  memory  long  after  the  book  has  been 
closed.  It  is  a  stirring  story,  well  prepared,  well  considered,  well  written  It 
may  be  warmly  commended  to  those  who  are  pleased  with  fire,  action  and 
romance." — RECORD-HERALD,  CHICAGO. 

_  "One  of  the  new  novels  of  the  present  publishing  season  which  is  justly  dis- 
tinguished above  nearly  all  of  its  fellows.  ...  It  possesses  universal  merit 
both  as  a  story  and  as  literature,  being  a  well-told  tale  which  attracts  interest 
at  the  outset  and  holds  it  through  a  series  of  exciting  adventures."  .  .  . 
COURIER,  NEW  YORK. 

"...  Into  the  details  of  the  plot,  of  which  there  are  many,  jt  is  not 
necessary  or  advisable  to  go,  for  this  could  not  be  done  without  spoiling  the 
pleasure  many  will  find  in  reading  an  exceptionally  good  story.  .  .  .  It  is 
safe  to  say  that  anyone  who  has  enjoyed  'Marguerite  de  Valois,'  'Chicot,  the 
Jester,'  or  'The  Forty-five  Guardsmen"  will  enjoy  'Orrain.'  " — PUBLIC  OPINION. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO.,  91-93  FIFTH  AVE.,  NEW  YORK. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL|TY 


